A Shot in the Dark
by KnightGuardian
Summary: 678902634 is their latest Number. Will it be their last?
1. Chapter 1

The sun crept across the library room, chasing back the chill of morning. Natural light sprawling across the floorboards in languid, slow measuring increments. Warm, where it lingered, contrasting the neutrality of the artificial blue emitted from his computers, and the steady glare of a light bulb. It lacked that Fortress of Solitude majesty, but it served its purpose and that was really all Finch could expect from an abandoned library on 7th and Broadway.

Finch closed his eyes, worn at the edges from a night spent tossing and turning more than sleeping. On a good day, his pain was at a level three. Today was not a good day. He could feel the strain of old injuries down to the soles of his feet, in every step, and it was frustrating to know it would never leave, this bone deep ache nattering at the back of his consciousness. Trapped, like a fly in the spider's web, entangled, in a rare moment of weakness Finch looked at the map of his failures; all sticky-taped and tacked to the wall in endlessly convoluted strings. A cruel reminder of his very human frailties: the gimp shuffle-walk he'd bear for the rest of his life, and the Numbers. All those Numbers he'd failed that haunted the corridors of his dreams waiting to pounce the moment sleep became unavoidable.

His map was a bookmarker, a reminder of the time preceding Mr. Reese, never letting him forget why he did this. And why certain sentiments had no place here. They clouded his judgment, if he let them. So he didn't. But Mr. Reese was behind schedule, and he was worried. He allowed himself to process it before brushing it aside; he permitted it to linger in the guise of annoyance. He was allowed that.

Contrary to Mr. Reese's teasing, he was not actually a Machine. He wouldn't be in his current situation if that were true. No, he possessed feelings, sentiments, and right now they were becoming a problem. They would be dealt with. _Later. _

For the time being he set aside personal distractions getting to work on the latest Number, a six-digit string of code that connected to a Danielle Brooke. She was an avid reader of post-modern literature, single, and searching for a man according to her eHarmony profile. Criteria listing: Tall, dark, and handsome, with an interest in mountain hiking. Must be employed. Must also be 20 years or older.

Finch admired her discerning nature; a woman who knew what she wanted was to be admired. She was already a step ahead of him on that front. A pity though, as it was highly unlikely she wound find many candidates that met her standards. Case in point, the average New Yorker was liable to break into a sweat at the thought of anything more strenuous than hailing a cab.

Finch snorted, coughed to cover it before realizing he was still alone. He wasn't worried exactly, not yet, but concern was reasonable, justified even. He was responsible for a man both the CIA and FBI were pursuing.

Yes, Ms. Brooke's chances looked poor if the government was pursuing the only man who fit her criteria. Besides, John had more baggage that she would have had in mind when she'd filled out her dating profile. Absently, Finch swiveled in his chair, pausing in his typing to adjust his glasses.

"Where are you, Mr. Reese?" he asked the room at large. It didn't answer.

_Ah, Mr. Reese has arrived. _

He was lurking in the doorway.

_Cat-footed, as ever._

Finch marked his presence by the drifting aroma of coffee, and the underlying scent of tea. Black, with a dabbing of sugar, exactly as he preferred it. Today he was too weary, too desperate for caffeine to care that Mr. Reese had discovered how he took his tea.

Finch was a little flattered.

He stifled the urge to hum his contentment as the brew rolled down his throat. From Mr. Reese's amused look, the barest upward tick at the corner of his mouth, he might not have been entirely successful.

"Long night, Finch?"

Mr. Reese didn't wait for answers. He knew better than to _expect_ them, as he leaned across Finch's shoulder instead. Rifling through the folder on Ms. Brooke and invading Finch's personal boundaries with his clean pressed suit, and the dash of gunpowder he forever smelled of. Finch really ought to mind more than he did. He contemplated answering, just to shake up their usual routine of verbal fish-and-bait, but ultimately decided against it. Routine was good. Routine worked.

"You're late, again, Mr. Reese," he said, annoyed. "You must see about rescheduling these yoga classes of yours."

"Traffic was murder," Reese said, glancing up briefly, something like amusement lightening the darkness in his eyes. Finch chose not to comment. He was still learning to tell when the man was being serious. _Moving on now_, he decided returning to the work at hand. Sliding over the latest photograph of Ms. Brooke, he went through all the relevant data.

"Danielle Brooke, age 35, single, searching for either a torrid affair or happily ever after – Ms. Brookes words not mine" he said tacked on, removing the papers from Reese's loose grasp.

"She is an avid reader, and enjoys hiking. Her record is clean, barring one unfortunate DUI, and her banking adds up as it should for a CEO's secretary. As far as I can tell, she's spotless. I'd go so far as to say sparkling."

"Maybe this one will be cut and dry."

"Let's not knock on wood, shall we Mr. Reese."

"Last known address?" Reese prompted, chugging the last dregs of his coffee, still hot enough Finch could see the puff of rising vapor. His face never changed. If it burned, it didn't show. Finch shuddered to think where the man might have had need for such a skill.

"36610 Millbrook, Apartment 29."

As quietly as he'd come, Reese left, leaving Finch to his blue screen monitors and software. He arranged himself in front of the monitors and quietly relished the euphoria of control as he_ tap-tap-tapped_ on the keyboard, operating systems and high-level security software falling apart with each stroke, a wealth of knowledge rushing at him faster than he could decode.

There, with no one to see, he smiled. Freed from the smell of gunpowder, his space no longer infringed, Finch distantly came to a troublesome realization. He hadn't minded it all that much. He was becoming used to Reese. After so long with only his own company, Finch would go so far as to claim that Mr. Reese provided a welcome distraction, despite his guns and CIA-fostered moral ambiguity. Any sentiments beyond that were, of course, irrelevant.

Finch kept one eye trained on Mr. Reese at all times. After the parking garage incident, he was understandably leery of letting the other man too far from his camera-range. He managed this by way of the numerous cameras scattered throughout the city. The other eye he kept on his screen as he rummaged through Ms. Brooke's life, searching for her proverbial _dirty laundry_. The deeper he dug, the more suspicious he became. Her records were beginning to look a little too perfect, not unlike a well-orchestrated alias.

_I've sunk to new depths of paranoia. Won't Mr. Reese be so pleased…_

That thought firmly in mind, he flicked his attention back towards the monitors tracking Mr. Reese. Communications were sparse in the following hours. Ms. Brooke had frequented a salon, a boutique, and a Red-box. Of the selection on offer she chose Inception. Indulging in a moment of profiling, Finch considered what her movie choice said about her personality. Strong, independent -

"_Something's not right, Finch." _Reese's voice cut in via his Communicator, and he was on edge. The faint emphasis settling over his name, a slow drawing of vowels, said as much. Reese, unlike every other cop and detective on the beat, wouldn't be shifting, restless. No, he would betray nothing but a slow, rolling tensing of muscles as he surveyed his surroundings.

"_Finch?"_ Mr. Reese's voice like a whispered crack reeled his attention back to where it belonged. "I'm here, Mr. Reese."

"_Either Ms. Brooke is a hyper-vigilant driver, or she's checking for tails." _

"Paranoia doesn't mean that no one's out to get you, as you well know, Mr. Reese."

"_She's also carrying."_

"A baby?" Finch asked, surprised, disconcerted to learn that he's missed such a vital piece of information. He re-scrolled through his data, but it didn't show any recent hospital checkups.

"There's no -"

"_A gun, Harold." _Mr. Reese isn't laughing, exactly, but there's amusement buried in the sounding of his name. Mr. Reese has a way with making names into things other than names, he's found, and Finch isn't sure if he likes that. _Irrelevant_, Finch decided, and spoke into his Communicator.

"I think it's time you have a little chat with Ms. Brooke."

"_I think you're right."_

* * *

_-000000000-_

* * *

Miles away from the other side of a monitor screen, Finch observed, - feeling uncomfortably like a voyeur. The collar of his neck suddenly felt restricting. Strange that it had fit adequately beforehand. Finch shifted in his chair as Mr. Reese plied Ms. Brooke with his subtle, and not inconsiderable, charms. The low toned quality of his voice - warm at the edges – working wonders on the woman. In less than five minutes she was eating out of his hand.

"Is this really necessary, Mr. Reese?" he asked, more agitation that he's comfortable with bleeding into his words. He'd really have to do something about that soon. This couldn't continue.

"Two men followed you in here Ms. Brooke - I need you to stay calm and use the back exit." Mr. Reese said, and the woman did exactly that. Mr. Reese got results. Finch didn't have to like how he came by them.

"_It's not like I'm asking her to prom, Finch." _Mr. Reese said, dryly._ "I just need her willing to trust me. People trust people they like - you know that."_

"I suppose you're right Mr. Reese."

"_Incoming photo of the men tailing our Ms. Brooke."_

"Dillon Pierce, a thug for hire from his rap sheet, multiple counts of assault with a deadly weapon, vehicular manslaughter, and battery."

"_Not a nice guy then."_

"No, not at all."

"_Good, then there's no one to care if he disappears."_

Finch ignored the comment, reading off the information on Dillon's partner. "The bald fellow with him is a Greg Pierce his uncle. It seems criminal activity runs in the family. He is in the system for DUI's, theft, and vandalism."

"_Family?"_ Mr. Reese asked in a deadly-calm murmur. Finch can't say that he liked where this was headed, but he would have to trust Mr. Reese. "No family."

Mr. Reese shoulder blocked the thugs before they reached the door Ms. Brooke had used. It was a common tactic but effective. "You should really watch where you're going."

"You watch where your goin' mister" Dillon grunted, his puffed out chest making him look oddly proportioned, and gorilla-like with his thick–set body and chest hair poking through his shirt. Mr. Reese ignored him in favor of double-checking on Ms. Brooke's safety; the mirrored wall showered her to be fine.

"What are you, stupid -? I'm talkin' to you!" Dillon snapped, leaping over the boundaries of proper society when he decided to get in Mr. Reese's face and prod his suit jacket with his finger. Finch was surprised, and pleased, to see that Mr. Reese hadn't broken it yet. The man from their earlier days in working the Numbers would have already. _Progress, thy name is John Reese._

"In the wild, the male gorilla pounds his chest to show supremacy, or attract a mate," Finch commented, a wry smile playing across his lips. It was endlessly amusing that this singular action so often precluded a brawl. Finch wondered what that said about society at large.

In moments, Mr. Reese's voice crackled over the Communicator, and Finch smirked.

"_I'm not sure I like your insinuation, Finch." _

Considering himself a bit of an audiophile, and fast becoming acquainted with the John Reese-lexicon, Finch knew ironic amusement when he heard it. _Edgy, but mild. Not really offended then, but not pleased either. _

Mr. Reese snorted, crude, and inelegant, knowing very well that it irked him. _"Besides, he's not really my type."_

"Too male?"

"_Too stupid."_

Finch froze. That was not at all what he'd expected, but then with Mr. Reese it never was. _"Have I shocked you, Finch?"_

_Wary amusement. Caution._ Finch heard all this in the man's deceptively calm question. His answer clearly mattered to Mr. Reese. "Don't be absurd. What you do on your downtime is none of my business."

Silence, but for the soft exhale of breath on the other end of the line. _Relief._ Finch discovered he was disappointed that Mr. Reese had ever doubted his answer. "I am not the military, nor the CIA, Mr. Reese."

"_Thank you."_

"I find it strange that you feel the need to thank me for not being a close-minded extremist, but you're welcome."

Mr. Reese made a soft, undistinguishable sound, and Finch tensed. His face turned against his shoulder, away from the camera, Finch had no way of puzzling out what it was. Before he had the chance, his attention returned to Dillon. Mr. Reese was all business as he leveled him with a cold gaze, his voice never rising above a murmur. Are you very attached to your finger, Dillon?"

Finch shivered. His partner was a very, very dangerous man.

"What the hell, man?" Dillon sputtered, "Who you think you are, goin' around threatenin' me?"

The thug still had his chest puffed out, glaring at Mr. Reese in what was surely meant to be a threatening manner as he prodded Reese's suit jacket with a oil greased finger, again. _"He's going to lose that finger"_ Finch privately mused, not nearly as appalled as he should be.

Mr. Reese glanced down at the finger poking at his suit, the chest pocket vaguely indented. The cameras barely caught the progress of his hands when he moved, precise and fast. He grabbed hold of the offending finger and twisted, a sharp and sudden jerk that effectively took the wind from Dillon's sails.

"_I did ask nicely"_ Mr. Reese pointed out as Dillon clutched at his hand, his face leeched of color, his finger twisted at an unnatural angle. "Yes, you did Mr. Reese."

Threat neutralized, Dillon was frog marched out the door, Mr. Reese flashing a dead cop's badge to quiet the civilians. Greg trailed behind like a confused hulk in his green knit sweater and ripped jeans. Dillon shuffled along behind, docile as a lamb to the slaughter.

Having Mr. Reese's gun pressed against a person's back tended to have that effect.

* * *

_**Authors Note: Read and Review please, thanks!**_


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Reese had uncovered the perfect blind spot.

No camera within fifty-feet of the vicinity would be able to capture his image. Only through hacking into the All State system across the street could Finch keep lookout over the alleyway entrance. Just looking at the refuse strewn across it, the grime, and filth littering the garbage bin, made Finch inwardly cringe. It was the last place anyone would willingly go. Mr. Reese had done his homework.

Mr. Reeses voice came through as he spoke to the hired thugs. "No, don't get up." _Crunch. _Gravel shifting under the heel of his shoe as he balanced on the balls of his feet. _Thwack. _Dillon, apparently, didn't follow directions very well. "Now, we're going to play a game." _Snick. _

_Oh dear_, Finch knew that sound. Mr. Reese had cocked his gun.

"I ask you a question and then you tell me what I want to know."

_Russian Roulette. How very…classic. _Finch would applaud his interrogation tactic if he didn't think the man had every intention of following through. The one thing about Mr. Reese, he didn't bluff. He didn't need to.

"Man, who you think you playin'? You're not shootin' no one."

Finch who usually prided himself on being above such things, wondered at the man's levels of stupidity. They must be staggering if his inability to see to the very real threat Mr. Reese presented was any indication.

"You're a cop. Everybody knows cops don't go around shootin' people."

"Do I look like a cop?"

"I don't know man, maybe?" Dillon snarled, "Come on, Greg, help me out here!" _Thud. Crack. Thump. _"You son of a bitch, you didn't have to do that!"

"He'll wake up in a few hours, which is more than I can say about you, Dillon, if you don't start talking. Now, who hired you to follow Ms. Brooke?"

"I can't tell you nothin', man. That psycho would kill me!"

"If you don't tell _me_ what I want to know, you'll never find out."

"No, man, just no!"

_Click._ "Looks like you get to keep your kneecap Dillon. What do you think your chances are next time…50/50?"

"You a cold one, you son of a bitch, man!"

"So I've been told." _Click_. "Your chances aren't looking to hot, Dillon, I'd start talking if I were you."

"Shit, fine, just put that thing away."

"Just as soon as you start talking."

"I don't got a name to go off. Wait, wait, I do have a number. Shit man, easy with that thing before you shoot somebody."

"Wouldn't that be a shame, you being such an upstanding citizen" Mr. Reese remarked with obvious disinterest. _"Got all that Finch?"_

"I am running a trace as we speak."

Speed dialing Detective Fusco, Mr. Reese waited in silence until their detective answered. Or, as Mr. Reese termed him, _'asset.' _Finch finding that term too clinical and dehumanizing, preferred to consider him their inside man. "Hello?" came the overworked, underpaid, voice of Fusco, his Bronx accent slurring his _ll's_ this early in the morning.

Mr. Reese, without raising his voice, might as well have cracked out a command with all the weight he put behind each word. "I've left a care package for you, at the corner of 5th and Millbrook. Don't be late."

"Good mornin' to you too, Mr. Sunshine." _Annoyed._ _But pleased, too._ That he would get the credit for bringing in the two Pierce's might have had something to do with that.

"And Lionel…"

"What?"

"Have a nice day."

Finch rubbed the bridge of his nose as the Communication with Fusco cut out. "I believe you did that only to rattle the Detective. I'm not sure that's wise."

"_Has anyone told you you're quite sharp, Finch?"_

"Yes, but that still doesn't answer the question of why, and do not bother with your shifty CIA evasion techniques, Mr. Reese."

"_No need to get touchy, Finch"_ Mr. Reese chided. _"To answer your question, its keeps the good Detective" _a pointed pause, laced with irony, _"from becoming to comfortable, preventing another Cartel incident."_

"…_And, its fun." _Mr. Reese chuckled a little, breathy and strangely soft; chin half buried under the collar of his coat. He'd turned it up against the wind.

"You have a strange definition of the word," Finch said as he scanned his monitors, scouring the Internet for more information on Ms. Brooke. _"It's more a loose reinterpretation,"_ Mr. Reese admitted, speaking into the Communicator even as his long strides carried him from the alley and back into view. Finch, of course, didn't sigh aloud with relief at this.

"_Has the NYPD beefed up their networking security?"_

"What are you are implying, Mr. Reese?"

"_Hacking their database didn't take you as long last time." _If the man was trying to bait a rise out of him, he would be disappointed; although Finch's mouth pursed in a tight line of annoyance it was carefully hidden from the inflection he placed in his words. It wouldn't do for Mr. Reese to think he had been successful.

"The last time, our perpetrators were on the databases' most wanted lists, and therefore only minimally protected. But feel free to give it the old whirl, Mr. Reese, if you think you can do better."

Mr. Reese paused at the corner, a stratagem that placed him where he could keep eyes on Ms. Brooke, but where she could not see _him_. Not without difficulty.

"_How's that security coming, Finch?"_

And there it was - the bane of his existence - that smoky drawl of Mr. Reese's. It made everything sound _dirty_. Finch's body, quite against his requests, tingled in uncomfortable places making him wish for a cold shower. _Or a warm hand- _

But no, he nipped that thought in the mitosis process, before it was allowed the chance to germinate. It strayed to close to dangerous waters, and Finch had never been an adventurous swimmer to begin with.

"I'm in, and if you would be kind enough to stop talking, I will share what I've found."

"_Did you just tell me to shut up?"_

"If the shoe fits, Mr. Reese." Finch cleared his throat, shifting in his chair. "Now, the number Mr. Pierce was kind enough to share traces back to a Donald Wheeler, 40 years old. No wife, no family to speak of, and a long-term resident of New York Penitentiary."

"_Looks like I'll be going on a little trip."_

"New York Penitentiary; Lt. Officer John Davidson started his first day today but failed to show up. He's at St. Paul's Hospital with his pregnant wife, Monica. It's unlikely he will make it to work today."

"_Sometimes, you scare me Finch."_

"Do I, Mr. Reese?"

"_Yes." _

"Well, stop off at the library for your papers. Clearly, Donald Wheeler has been playing puppet-master from prison."

"_Then its time someone cut his strings."_

"Oh, one more thing. In the future refrain from playing Russian roulette with possible perpetrators. Dead men don't talk, Mr. Reese."

"_Oh ye of little faith…"_ Mr. Reese looked up, directly into the camera he was using for their exchange, and winked as he snapped a new clip into his gun and stepped onto the sidewalk, his coat elegantly covering the telltale bulge of a gun.

A gun that had been previously empty.

"I see. There were no bullets, so the Pierces were never in danger – at least not from a bullet."

"_Very good, Finch."_

"You really can be quite convincing."

"_I wouldn't be any good at my job if I wasn't. I'll contact you when I get Ms. Brooke to the safe house."_

"I am forwarding the address as we speak. Best not to keep Ms. Brooke waiting to long, Mr. Reese."

"_You know, you could always call me John…"_

"First names are for people with _real_ first names. And besides, those are for more intimate acquaintances."

"_Intimate acquaintances?" _Mr. Reese said, sounding out the words in a low-cadence murmur that had Finch's insides squirming unacceptably. _"So, what do I need to do, for you to call me John?" _he asked, soft and silky. Like the snake in the Garden of Eden - but that wasn't really fair to Mr. Reese, was it? Finch was no innocent; he'd gone in with his eyes wide open.

"Theoretically speaking, of course, it would be dinner dates, late night conversations, things of that nature."

"_Then take me to dinner, Mr. Finch, I promise I won't say no." _

Finch had heard of 'bedroom voice.' He was cautious not repressed, but until Mr. Reese he'd dismissed the idiom as inflated euphemisms. Mr. Reese had made a true, if unwilling, believer of him since then. Finch took a moment to consider if he modulated his voice with the same knowing intent as he pointed his gun, and shadowed a Number. It was not improbable to assume he did.

The CIA had certainly trained him to use the tools at his disposal. And Mr. Reese had a lot to work with. Finch would have had to be in conscious denial not to notice. From his voice, to his striking physicality, and that languid predators stalk he exuded, Mr. Reese was a very talented man.

Finch swallowed. The ball was in his court now. All he had to do was say the words. _And then, - and then what_? Nothing had changed between now and this morning. "Mr. Reese…" he began, wetting lips gone dry, his throat catching over the denial he knew he had to say. "While I am flattered, I don't think that would be wise."

The words hung in the air, and for a split second he feared this would be the end for them. Not a death. But this, a few simple words all of them a lie. It would be so very easy, to give in, to try. But deep down, something inside started to crumble, because he knew. _I can't._

"_Don't worry Finch, I can hear the gears turning in that head of yours from here" _Mr. Reese, – _John_ – said. Although Finch could make out traces of disappointment, he might as well have declined an invitation to a charity event. He certainly sounded bland as Ms. Hulbert from The People's Church Foundations when he declined her yearly invitations.

Finch grit his teeth, wavering between disappointment and relief, unsure which was worse – _Johns_ blasé attitude or his own regret.

"_I'm a big boy, I can take a hint. I'll be in touch."_

And with those parting words, Mr. Reese went radio-silent.

Finch could have tapped into his phone and tuned up the audio volume, if he'd wanted. But he restrained himself. His reasons, however, were less than noble. It wasn't that he had any compunction about monitoring Mr. Reese without his knowledge. No, Finch just didn't want to listen while Ms. Brooke shamelessly flirted with the man. He didn't want to be waiting, listening, for when Mr. Reese – _John_ – flirted _back_.

Alone but for the _hum-hum-humming_ of his monitors and the subtle squeaking of his chair, a telltale sign that donuts were not meant to be breakfast, Finch closed his eyes and dreamed of a world where he might awaken to the scent of gunpowder and coffee on his pillow.

For a minute, then two.

After three, he firmly shook off his inner wanderings. He tracked Mr. Reese's phone using GPS to see they had returned to her apartment. No doubt she had something there she could not leave without. If Finch hadn't had his own little experience with the infamous Ms. Hester he would have scoffed.

It was a good reminder of how human Mr. Reese still was, that he had a soft touch for damsels in distress. A good reminder also, that if Mr. Reese craved some form of human companionship he had better places to look than a middle aged cripple with trust issues that bordered on neurotic. That Ms. Brooke looked like Jessica, while uncanny, couldn't hurt. In fact, nine times out of ten when a loved one died the one left behind eventually moved on. To a person that shared a common factor with their predecessor.

Accordingly, it couldn't hurt that Ms. Brooke looked like Jessica. But why were his fingers suddenly tensing, frozen in a bout of paralysis, and his thoughts stalling like a 2G computer trying to process a 10G file? Finch sighed. _Damn these sentiments, anyhow._ It wasn't as though he'd ever had a real chance.

The mornings after the nights before would be disastrous. He would hog the blankets, and Mr. Reese would snore – he _did _snore. Finch knew this because one memorable night he had crashed on the library couch, too worn down from the day's exertions to manage the trip home – to whichever hotel room he currently inhabited.

Finch, wisely, had let sleeping gunmen lie.

Thinking back now it _had_ been a long day. Five of them to be exact. Finch had survived off of caffeine and Energizers, the bottles of which he had in fit of self-consciousness hidden at the bottom of the bin. How Mr. Reese managed it he still didn't know. Between tailing cabs, and following the Number up and down Central Park, always with fifteen feet between them, he had gotten little rest. A catnap in the library didn't count.

Finch found it exhausting just watching, but the man never slowed, lagged, or even gave any outward sign of fatigue. _Until it was over,_ Finch thought with perhaps more admiration than the occasion had warranted.

He'd crashed like a junkie jonesing for a fix, minus the twitching. If twitching had been involved, Finch would have been forced to phone for the paramedics. Fortuitously it had not come to such extreme measures.

Mr. Reese had cast one baleful glare at the couch - to this day, Finch didn't know what it had done to warrant that. Then, wincing at the pull of healing wounds, he'd settled down, closed his eyes, and did not open them again for 6 hours. Finch unsettled by how still Mr. Reese had lain, and wary of leaving him unguarded when he was clearly incapacitated, had stayed. The computers could always do with updating, and there was always work to be done. It was hardly an inconvenience.

At 3:00 AM Mr. Reese woke, a little; enough that Finch felt his eyes on him. Not uncomfortably, just there. It felt curious, perhaps, but not bothersome. "Did I wake you, Mr. Reese?" he'd asked, not entirely sure the other man was fully conscious yet.

His eyes were half-lidded, and glazed. Unfocused. _Soft._ Unlike the chips of granite they so often resembled when he was awake. Somehow Finch knew though, if a threat had walked through that door Mr. Reese would have been on his feet, and shooting, in seconds. It was a thought at odds with the lethargic stillness Mr. Reese represented, sprawled across the couch like he owned it.

"No, you didn't wake me, Harold." His voice was sleep roughed and scratchy. The taller man had half-heartedly propped himself on his elbow, head canted to both rest on the armchair and keep Finch in view.

Finch almost smiled.

"I see. Shall, I turn off the lights?"

"I don't mind the light."

"You should get some sleep, John."

He had been prepared to make it a strongly worded suggestion, expected too even with the speech all prepared. The man was nothing if not stubborn. But Finch had learned, to his pleasant surprise, that a sleep muddled Mr. Reese would agree to anything.

"Okay." The man had blinked, smiling a private smile, as he settled in more comfortably, feet propped over the edge. He was a tall man, and the couch was not very large, but he looked content.

"I've been meaning to purchase a larger couch…" Finch had said aloud, "This one is far too small for this room."

"Slept on worse, Finch" the man had muttered, absent and slurred, "slept _with_ worse, too."

_Was he even aware he was speaking?_ Finch chuffed, likely not. Mr. Reese was usually far more concise in his wordplay; even his teasing was a calculated diversion. Finch bottled down his sudden, burgeoning, curiosity. It would be an unforgivable breach of trust to pry at this time. He watched, observed, and catalogued people by the thousands on a daily basis but he could afford his employee, - _friend_ -, the illusion of privacy. And a place to crash; no questions asked.

He'd certainly earned it today.

"Go to sleep, Mr. Reese."

"Sir, yes, sir" he'd responded, his hand flailing in what had no doubt been meant to represent a two fingered salute. And if after waiting a full five minutes Finch had gently carded his hand through the man's hair while he slept? Well, there had been no one but he, and his Machine, to know.

And the Machine would never tell.

Finch inhaled, exhaled, and let the memory go, hard though it was. He had a job to do. Numbers to save. And he needed Mr. Reese to do it.

Anything else was irrelevant.


	3. Chapter 3

Ms. Brooke was looking at him oddly. It might have something to do with the jounce in his step, but more likely it's the whistling. Finch had shot him down in true Finichian-style but he'd expected no less. Not really. The man was too stuck in his habits to try anything new, let alone something so personal. He'd tested the waters and found while tepid they were _not _frigid.

_And_, he thinks, _Finch does not mind half so much as he pretends._

Besides, he had plenty of time to wear the other man down. He'd live to try another day. For now, he's got approximately 20 minutes until Finch is back to talking in his ear. Its more kindness than Stanton would have spared, or Mark.

He's grateful of the consideration. Straight laced as Finch seemed he didn't fluster over Reese's teasing flirt, either. It could be his standards are skewed; personally, he blames the Company for that. Either way, it felt nice to be considered - even if only in the footnotes of the day. What they did together, the Numbers, this was important work. Anything else they established along the way was a bonus.

The Numbers were everything to Finch, and when Reese had taken on this crusade he'd made it his own, too. And Reese never did things by halves. He glanced at his watch, then the rear view mirror. No tails. Good. They were in the clear._ Three, two, one -_

Speak of the devil himself. Well if the devil had made it his personal pause to save lives, anyhow. _"Ms. Brooke is a backseat driver, a compulsion that hints at a deeper need for control over her environment."_

"Nothing wrong with control, Finch" he shot back, quiet so as to avoid drawing Ms. Brooke's attention. No easy feat when sharing a car with the woman in question. She was holding it together remarkably well for someone who had a bounty on her head. Reese was just thankful she hasn't dissolved into hysterics. Nothing drew more unwanted attention than a man driving off with a woman in tears.

"_You would say that, Mr. Reese."_

Finch sounded relieved. Reese over-looked that or he'd be irritated. And he didn't want to be. Because then he'd have to wonder: _What had Finch expected that he would sound so relieved?_

_Did he really think I'd walk out on our arrangement? _That Finch thought so little of him stung. Hell, Finch's refusal had been kinder than most who took him up on his offer.

"Turn left here" Ms. Brooke said, purely reflexive. Reese already knew her address. "Right here, I mean – sorry" she broke off, sitting back, tensing uncomfortably. Reese forced his hands to loose on the steering wheel; he hadn't realized he'd gripped it so tight.

He smiled at her, but his heart wasn't in it. She stared back blankly, and Reese kept his eyes on the road until they pulled into her Apartment complex. "Do you know what you need?" he asked her, scanning all the rooftops, corners, and small niches prevalent to apartment complexes. "Yes, I'll just be a moment."

Reese refrained from rolling his eyes. That _would_ be unprofessional.

"_Its never just a moment with women." _Finch was trying to be conversational; it was stilted at best but an effort. Reese was no longer in the mood for it. "Have much experience, Finch?" he asked.

His hand firm on Ms. Brooke's elbow he escorted her to the door. Her keys jangling softly in his hands he scoped out her apartment. He nodded to her, and she slid inside shutting the door with a _click_ as the tumbler lock fell into place.

"_No need to be snide, Mr. Reese."_

Reese studied the room, cataloguing the miscellaneous items. Mostly he noticed the lack of them, something he couldn't place nagging at him. Ms. Brooke had a standard couch, and table appliances, everything in sterile white.

Easily matched, and replaced –

Reese froze. _Jesus._ He hadn't meant it like _that_. Not how Finch would have taken his comment. He ran a hand through his hair, wavering between annoyed and guilty. "Aw, Finch, I didn't mean it like that."

"_Pray tell, how did you mean it, Mr. Reese?"_

Finch only sounded miffed, but Reese wasn't fooled. He looked around surreptitiously but Ms. Brooke was in her room now. He could hear as she opened drawers looking for whatever items she couldn't leave without. "It was a case of foot in mouth, Finch" he paused letting his words hang. "I'm sorry."

"_That sounds rather unhygienic, Mr. Reese." _And there it was, the curl of warmth that lingered over his surname, the barest inflection. Or maybe he was hearing what he wanted to hear. There was no sure way to know, but he didn't think it was his imagination. "Wont happen again."

"Are you thirsty" Ms. Brooke said, her blond head popping around the corner, forced cheer written all over her face. "I don't know about you, Mister Reese but I'm thirsty."

"Just John, would be fine Ms. Brooke."

"Alright, Just John, drink up," she said clinking their glasses, peering at him with open curiosity. "So tell me, what's next?"

"You're awfully calm, Ms. Brooke."

"I've never had someone try to kill me before, you tell me, how am I supposed to be?" she asked, but her grin was starting to waver. Reese set down his cup, tossing the contents in the sink.

Suddenly, everything began to fall into place and Reese cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. "Ms. Brooke's is no innocent, she's CIA. The staged apartment, a faked hit popping onto the database, a long string of falsified information leading to a Spartan, barely lived in apartment? I should have seen it sooner."

"_Mr. Reese, you never told Ms. Brooke someone was trying to kill her true, but how sure are you about Ms. Brooke's affiliation with the CIA?"_

"Very sure." Reese's eyes narrowed. No wonder she looked so much like Jessica. That wasn't coincidnece. That had Mark written all over it. It wouldn't be above the agent to use bait that resembled Reese's dead ex-girlfriend. It was exactly the kind of underhanded play Mark would deal.

"Drugging the drink, _tsk-tsk_, very amateur Ms. Brooke." Reese reached for his gun, fingers slipping around the grip, unease settling in the pit of his stomach as he watched it fall from nerveless fingers, flopping harmlessly onto the rug. Ms. Brooke knelt down, picking it up, stuffing it into the contents of her purse. "See, not so amateur Mister Reese. You're losing your touch, getting soft."

"From the stories Mr. Snow told I expected more."

"Sorry to disappoint" Reese said, blinking continuously as the room began to spin. He felt sick, disorientated, and tired. _So damn tired - no. Focus._ _He had to._ Reese stumbled away from the tiny kitchenette, leaning heavily against the wall as his knees threatened to buckle. "What did – what did you give me?"

"Oh a bit of chloroform residue, barbiturate's, and a touch of ecstasy to keep you mellow. No use fighting it Mister Reese." She chuckled, "It was made up special for big, tough guys like yourself."

"_Mr. Reese, - John?"_ Finch said, his voice unusually loud. Was he shouting? Reese could barely focus on putting one foot in front of the other never mind what Harold was saying. The door. It was close if only he could –

Reese pushed at the woman when she tried to take the Communicator from him, it might have been more of a flail but she had backed off. It was enough for now. She was waiting for the barbiturates to kick in. Reese knew that because its what he would have done. No point in wasted efforts.

Reese sprawled across the rug of Ms. Brooke's apartment and didn't get up. _"What's happening? John! John?"_

Finch sounded worried. Reese didn't want that, he struggled to remain conscious, and upright. Accomplishing both was almost too much. "'S' alright, Finch, but looks like you'll be needing ano'er employee sooner than you thought."

"_I like the one I've got just fine, Mr. Reese."_

Feeling woozy, and out of his head, tripping like he had a nose full of ecstasy, Reese tried to make his feet work properly. They refused to cooperate. Was this how Finch felt, limited in how he could move his own body? How frustrating. _"John? Talk to me-"_

_Right. Finch._ "Ms. Brookes cooked up a cocktail, special-like for me. Us CIA boys, we've got high tolerance" he explained, it seemed like something Finch should to know. That he could keep his secrets.

"You know, so's we don't talk - under pressure." Reese paused, Finch was breathing funny, heavier than usual. Nasal, fast and hollow. Reese stared at the carpet, struggling to focus. Counting the strands in the rug to do so. "Absorbent drugs. The apartments spinning, or is it dimming, both maybe."

Reese paused, laughing a little. "Did you turn out the lights Finch?"

"_John, listen to me very carefully, are you listening?" _Finch said. Reese paused in his counting, he kept getting stuck on twenty-two. "I'm listening."

"_I will find you, I promise."_

Reese's head lolled against his chest Finch's voice seeming very far away, if not less loud. Sleep digging in like claws, dragging him slowly, slowly, under. He pinched his arm to stay conscious. The pain chased off the worst of the drowsiness. It was getting dark though, black curling at the edges of his vision. He didn't like the dark so much. It never meant anything good. "Will you turn on the lights?" he asked, aware enough to hate the waver in his own voice.

"_Mr. Reese, – John -, I will make the city glow."_

Reese became distracted, thoughts of the New York City lights cluttering his mind. The whole metropolis bright and shiny, like the bits of nebula and collapsing stars, made for a nice thought. Most nights they barely broke the cover of darkness, those flickering lights of ramshackle apartments, flophouses, and penthouses. But some nights, they lit up the darkest hours in a yellow ambiance. Reese, privately, liked walking the streets on those nights best.

_From the top of that building on Sixth Avenue and 42__nd__ street they are probably even nicer._ He thought, and it was a pleasant reflection to take with him as sleep clasped him tightly in its cold embrace and dragged him under.

* * *

**_Author's Note: Read and Review please, thanks!_**


	4. Chapter 4

The CIA had John. Finch's mind played virtual ring-a-round-the-rosy with that, stuck like a record on repeat. But as with any good computer, he just needed a restart to work the kinks out of his system. He breathed deep, and on his exhale he was already dialing Detective Carter.

She answered on the third ring.

"Don't you two ever sleep?"

"Detective Carter." Finch grit his teeth placing special weight in the sounding of her surname. It worked for Reese; he could make it work for him too. "I need your help or more specifically, John does."

"What has he gotten himself into now?"

"The CIA arranged an elaborate trap. I didn't see the clues in time, and now they have Mr. Reese."

"Yeah alright, I'm in but don't know how much good I'll be to you. Its not like I have a stack of CIA contacts hidden in my purse, you know." She sighed, " I always knew you two would be trouble."

"I'm forwarding the last known location of Mr. Reese. See what you can find out." He hung up then. There was no tome to waste on pleasantries. The longer a kidnapper had a victim, the lower the chances were for a happy conclusion. Mr. Reese was more capable than most and certainly no victim, but he was not bullet proof either.

Their second, shadier detective might be able to provide information that Carter could not. "I was beginning to think you'd lost my number" Fusco said, "but I guess not. So what's going on? Is it Carter? She just took a call and looks worried. Is this something I need to known about?"

"Carter is not my concern right now, Mr. Reese is-" before Finch could complete his sentence Fusco rushed in with questions sounding borderline worried himself. Finch, who didn't have time for this, was annoyed.

"What happened, is he you know-"

Finch cut in before any more time could be wasted. "While your concern is noted, I need to know if you have any contacts in touch with the CIA. Information about where they might hold and question a prisoner would be considered valuable Intel right now."

Fusco grunted inarticulately, thinking. "I know a couple guys, who know a couple guys. I'll see what I can dig up, since it's for our mutual friend and all."

Finch knew the worth of money to a divorced man with a young son and a detectives' salary added extra incentive. 'Find me something actionable Detective, and I will see to it you are monetarily rewarded for your troubles." This time, Fusco hung up first.

Finch stood and paced the room twice before reseating himself while the Machine scanned every block and city traffic light in New York for facial recognition on three people: Mr. Snow, Ms. Brooke', and Mr. Reese.

There was nothing to do now but wait. The Machine would pick up something eventually, it always did. It was the time between that concerned Finch. But wringing his hands would get him nowhere. Mr. Reese needed him to pull a Copperfield, and yank a rabbit from the hat. And damnit, he would, too. Obstacles were irrelevant. He would find his employee.

Finch sighed. Readjusting his glasses he stared blankly into his screen, watching the blink-blink-blinking of the system processing and analyzing data. Mr. Reese's cache of high caliber weaponry caught at his eyes, the standard issue bag standing out rather glaringly on the bookshelf below a 1st edition of Charles Dickens, and his more recent purchase on Sun-Tu, The Art of War. Who was he trying to fool? Sentiments while at times cumbersome were a part of the human condition.

_"Where are you Mr. Reese?"_

* * *

**-000000000-**

* * *

When he wakes he's not alone. He can feel a stare; it has the same effect as a laser-pointer trained on his back. _It itches. _He suppresses the instinctive urge to hunch over. He'll be damned if he gives Mark the satisfaction of seeing him sweat. He's inside an abandoned warehouse. It stinks of rotting cardboard and leaky pipes, the floor running in six thousand consecutive feet. It still feels like a cage. With the Government Issue handcuffs binding his hands behind his back and the chair anchored to the floor it might as well be.

"You can stop pretending now. I know you're awake, John." Mark smiled, saying his name like they were old buddies from college bumping shoulders in Central Park. He saw it for what it was – a calculated attempt to recreate familiarity. Reese had seen him use it before.

"Mark, I'd say it's good to see you" he said, "but we'd both know that's a lie."

The man chuckled. Standing from the desk he'd been leaning against he circled Reese stopping at the back of his chair where he couldn't see. Mark leaned into his personal space, smelling of expensive cologne and spice. He'd always worn too much. "I'm hurt, John" he said, with uncomfortable proximity to Reese's ear. He forced himself not to recoil. It was just another tactic meant to keep him on edge. Tense. But he knew what happened to bowstrings wrung to tightly. They snapped. Reese wouldn't.

He sat back in his chair; head tilted in the direction of Mark's voice but remained otherwise unresponsive. He would let Mark do the heavy lifting here and ride the fallout. When every word could be a sign for Mark to trace back to Finch it was his only option.

Mark carried on talking as though he'd said something amusing. "So tell me, what have you been up to here in the big city?"

Reese said nothing but that didn't discourage Mark. "Always took you for more of a country boy myself." Mark moved again, straightening as he moved to stand in front, looking down on him. A half-baked crack at intimidation. "You really should have gotten that cabin in Montana, John, because people like you and me – we don't get to retire. We are retired by the Company once we've outlived our usefulness."

Mark smiled a little, and Reese could admit the man had the wry I-don't-want-to-do-this-if-you-don't-make-me look down pat. "They sure don't tell that to the new recruits do they John?"

No, they damn well hadn't. _'Your country needs you'_ they'd said, giving him a gun and pointing at the bad guy. They never said the bad guy was also a father, or a beloved uncle, that he went to Mass, or helped the old lady next door with her grocery list. It was not theirs to question so when orders came down from on high they had better obey. Reese processed his resentment, still a raw wound, and set it aside. Mark might know all the nerves to prod, but Reese knew how to resist.

"You really want to play it like that, Reese? Because I can play hardball if I have to" Mark said calmly, as though they were reviewing operational stats. And he'd used his surname. The kid gloves were about to come off if he didn't give the agent something. "All this," Mark waved his hand like it was meant to mean something, "was an effort to do this the easy way. But if you don't like it we can always do it the hard way, it's your choice."

"What do you want Mark?" he asked, letting himself bend. Letting Mark think he'd made him. This was about giving Mark what he thought he wanted. No need to get to the messy bit any sooner than necessary.

"What I want is to reopen the lines of communication here, John."

"If you wanted to hear my voice so badly that's all you had to say." Reese wriggle dhis bound hands. "No need for all this."

He paused, tilting his head back in a languid roll. "Unless you're into bondage."

Mark's mouth pursed angrily, his fist snapping Reese's head to the side. Sharply reeling himself in Mark shook his head. "You may have learned to keep your mouth shut, Reese, but I can teach you to talk. It is what I do. But you already know that."

"You didn't expect me to roll over on the first command, did you Mark?" he shot back, calm even as blood trickled down his split lip, its gentle sting barely acknowledged by his pain receptors.

"It's an innocent question, inconsequential. What harm is there in answering, tossing me a bone to sink my teeth into?"

"There are no innocent questions from you."

"Come on John, give me something to work with here."

Reese smirked. "What have I been up to? For the first part of my retirement I drank myself into oblivion, constantly moving, never stopping, never looking back."

"Okay, good, so after Ordos you were putting your life with the Company in your rear-view mirror, I get it, I do John. But what changed? Something did. Because the man sitting here isn't drunk."

Reese shrugged. "I got better."

Mark laughed a sharp, angry bark of sound. "Would you rather talk to them?" he asked jerking his thumb at the two men standing guard at the door. "Do you really want that? They won't be nearly as nice as I am, John."

"You do what you have to do, Mark."

"Fine, you got sober. You didn't access any of your known accounts. Did you invest in an offshore account when the Company wasn't looking? I'd find that surprising" Mark said. "You never held onto anything; well, that's not exactly true is it? There was Jessica."

Reese didn't move, didn't blink. He went completely still. "Jessica's dead."

"I'm sorry to hear that John."

Reese's mouth twisted in an unpleasant line. "No you're not."

Mark didn't argue the point waiting, watching for some at whatever information he was digging for. Reese smiled, a knife's edge from a snarl, to hide rumblings in his chest just below the surface. "You can't bait a trap with a ghost so you got the lovely Ms. Brooke to do it for you. It would almost be clever if it wasn't so distasteful."

"Yes, distasteful, that's a good word for it," Mark said. "I am sorry if I tread on fresh wounds, but lets face it, she's been dead for how many years? How fresh can they be? By now you're Jessica is no more than a rotted-out skeleton six feet under."

"You're a real piece of work," Reese said, his left eyes twitching minutely. A calculated tell. Mark being the arrogant bastard he was fell for it hook, line, sinker. "Didn't like me disrespecting you dead ex-girlfriend, did you John? Well I don't like you ignoring me. It isn't polite."

Reese didn't glare, he didn't rattle his cuffs or jerk his chair. He went cold inside, everything filing down to one agenda. Survival. After that he'd focus on putting a bullet in Mark Snow. Finch wouldn't like it, but what the man didn't know couldn't hurt him.

"I hit a nerve, didn't I?" Mark said patting his shoulder affectionately. "Good."

Reese used Jessica's name like a shield. And it worked. Mark thinking he'd found the right nerve pressed, like jamming a thumb into a gunshot wound, just as Reese knew he would. It killed things inside him to do it, things he'd thought already lost, but Reese had to protect those still living.

He didn't think she would mind.

Two hours later and Mark was getting frustrated. He paced more, talked louder. Reese wasn't sure if he was playing a role, or slipping up. Mark ground his teeth, eyes narrowing. "You're distracting me," he said suddenly. Reese knew he'd catch on eventually. He wasn't stupid.

"Lets backtrack from here. You sobered up, why? The woman you love is dead and your hands are covered in blood. What could possibly keep you from eating your gun?"

Reese smirked. "Some guy gave me some Benjamin's and told me I could start over."

Mark whistled. "That one must have been a real Good Samaritan, or had a God-Complex. Either way that's a lot of green to give a stranger."

Reese tilted his head to the side. "You don't believe me."

Mark snorted. "Not a damn word, John."

"Too bad it's the truth."

"Let's say I did believe you. Who was this guy?"

"I don't know"

"He gives you enough green to start over and you don't know his name?"

Reese shrugged. "I didn't ask."

"A good Samaritan, or a rich guy with a guilty conscience what's the difference, right? You've got money now, but what do you do with it? You stick around in the city with more cameras than the paparazzi?"

"Is that really the question you want to ask? Or do you want to know about Ordos, Mark, because I think that's what this is really about." Reese waited; he didn't hold his breath or become still this time. He breathed slow, steady, waiting for Mark to answer, the next few hours hinging on his reply.

"You're not wrong about that."

_"This isn't about Finch and the Machine,"_ Reese thought relaxing in the invisible places Mark couldn't see. "Never thought I was." Reese grinned privately. _"Never let predators see you bleed. When that happened the game was over"._ He'd learned that from National Geographic, and it applied to more than just the animal kingdom.

Reese had no intention of letting Mark have his victory over him so easily. Smug, thinking he still had leverage, Mark smiled. "You're an arrogant son of a bitch, Reese."

"I think you're getting us confused, Mark."

"And they said you didn't have a sense of humor. Fine, what happened in Ordos?"

"You bombed the site, remember?"

"And Stanton, the partner you were under orders to eliminate?"

"Dead, unless you know different…but since you're asking me, maybe not as dead as you'd hoped."

"You didn't shoot her then."

"No."

"She shot you."

"Very good, Mark."

"Loyalty can get you killed John. I hope you realize that now."

"Good thing I haven't got anyone to be loyal to anymore, then."

Marks burn-phone beeped and he stepped out. "I'm sorry, John, and this time I mean it" were the first words out of his mouth when he returned and Reese knew it was going to be bad. "I hope you meant it when you said you have no loyalties because word has come down that you may be in contact with someone, someone that the Company has begun to notice."

Reese didn't answer.

"We want your boss, because let's face it. You're the brawn in that liaison. You're the wet-work boy, not the brains. Give us a name and you can walk out of here."

"You said that once before Mark" Reese countered. "Right before you tried to kill me."

"Yes well, mistakes do happen sometimes. And here you are, larger than life! Playing hero in a suit on the streets of New York, saving people. How does that work? How do you know who needs saving?"

"I'm just the wet-work boy, remember? I get a call, I do my job, and at the end of the day I get a nice check."

"You want me to believe you've gone mercenary, is that it? Sell your talents to the highest bidder?" Mark titled his head, "Okay, fine, give me your price. How much do you want for your boss's name?"

Reese laughed, staring up at the ceiling. The vents were boarded. With nights ranging in at 90 degrees it was going to get hot in here fast. He could take the heat. _For Finch._ "I don't have a name to give. There are no names. He's Boss-man and I'm the guy he calls when there's leg-work involved, that's it."

"Well then it's going to be a long day," Mark said loosening his tie, taking off his expensive cufflinks and rolling up his shirtsleeves. "And you won't be so pretty tomorrow."

"And if I still don't know anything?"

"I think you know what happens then. Unless you give me something actionable, my hands are tied."

Reese snorted. Mark reacted. Slamming his first down onto the wooden table, the hollow thud echoing across the stone-floored building. It was another ploy. A sudden change in emotion meant to startle.

Reese didn't so much as blink; effecting a look of boredom.

"You're familiar with water boarding Reese, but I don't think you've ever had that dubious pleasure. Let's see if we cant do something about that." Mark slapped him on the back, his tone gregarious once more as he stuck a black burlap sack over Reese's head.

He spent the next twenty minutes fighting to breathe. His lungs burning as less and less air reached them. He jerked his hands reflectively, if he could just get them free – "_Focus. Breathe."_

And he did, struggling for each breath, knowing eventually it would stop. "Had enough?" Mark asked yanking off the burlap. Reese spat water, breathing deep and sharp but controlled.

He tilted his head towards Mark with a blasé: "Thanks, I was thirsty."

Mark smiled, but it was tight and forced this time. "Right, what was I thinking? I've got Super Soldier here. Again."

Mark's second, a black man, stepped in with a strip of duct tape. Sealing it across his mouth, the burlap when back on, and again came the water and the aching, and the burning fire in his lungs as Reese was slowly suffocated. Light headed with lack of oxygen, he started to black out.

Mark waited until his heart slowed to a thready thirty beats per minute before removing the burlap. The duct tape was ripped off, leaving his mouth stinging from the adhesive. "You ready to talk Reese? Who is giving you orders now?"

"I told you, I don't know."

"And I told you I don't believe it!" Mark snarled tossing the burlap to the floor. He always had been one for dramatics. "I want a name Reese, and this, this can go on as long as it needs to until I get it."

"You do what you have to do Mark."

Again came the water and the drowning until each breath stung like the rotgut whiskey sold in bordellos along the coast of Mexico with none of it pleasant numbness. Sopping wet and the temperature rising fast left Reeses clothes at the scratchy in-between of soggy and dry. The day punching in at ninety-nine degrees meant it was becoming uncomfortably warm.

Mark had removed his tie.

Reese watched as the agents drank cold lattés, condensation pearling down the sides, and made small talk over his head. He didn't care. He used the opportunity to assess the two men. They might carry something useful on their persons.

During transport he'd felt the stiff coil of a garrote in Mark's left breast pocket. Emergency use only. Mark preferred the cleanliness, distance, of a gun. He also had a Government Issue six-inch switchblade in his left trouser pocket, the slight bulge giving away its presence.

Reese snorted. He hoped that's all it was.

Mark never left home base without a backup firearm, in his case a small .35 caliber tucked into the belt of his trousers. He'd forgotten Agency Rule One. "_Never approach the victim with an unrestrained weapon."_ Desperate people did desperate things. Reese wasn't, not yet, but he wasn't about to wait around for the cavalry either. Hell, he was the goddamn cavalry. And right now? He was on his own.

He knew Mark but the black man, Agent Evans, was an unknown quantity. He appeared clean cut like every other carbon copy Company man Reese had run across working for the CIA. The glasses, however, were only for show an extension of his disguise. The wonders some bits of metal and synthetic plastic could do to shift civilian perceptions were not lost to Reese. Evans was clever then, which made him dangerous.

He kept spare cuffs in his belt loop speaking of a cautious nature; clearly he was a man who always had a Plan B. No wonder Mark picked him as his second. The nail-clippers in the man's right pockets said he was new to the game. And then, of course, the Government Issue gun Evans kept in an ankle holster. He wasn't used to it yet, and it showed in his walk with a faint listing to the left. Reese would remember that, but it wasn't the gun he was interested in. Not for now. It was the paperclip that kept Evans' cash neatly folded together in his right pocket that interested Reese.

His hands chaffed in their restrains and his hopes scattered like so much dust. Pointless. There was no possible way to get the paper clip from Evans' pocket to his hand. Not with them hung over his head as they were.

Evans set his drink on the rickety table and crouched down. "It's getting warm in here, Mr. Reese. Wouldn't you care for some water?"

"Sure, water. A cheeseburger would be nice too," Reese grinned, a sharp edged curl of defiance. "But we both know that only happens if I tell you what you want to hear."

"Is some boss-man really worth so much to you?" Evans prodded, holding the half-empty latté so close Reese could feel its chill, and it was a welcome distraction. "You people are kind of slow aren't you?" Reese said staring at the ceiling, "I don't know any names."

"Mr. Snow doesn't believe you, and frankly neither do I."

Reese met his gaze directly. Evans turned his eyes first. Mark snorted with disgust in the background.

Reese shrugged, saying very clearly, and very plainly. "That's not my problem."

Mark finished the last of his drink and set it down, making sure Reese could see it. "Wild dogs don't heel with a soft touch Evans. No, we'll need to step it up some before Super Solider here even breaks a sweat."

"Do something useful and get the ropes."

Evans came back into view and Mark promptly knocked Reese across the head. Before he could regain his equilibrium he had been moved, and secured. His wrists were hoisted above his head by rope and kept there by the handcuffs. His feet welcomed the change. He knew in a while his arms would protest but for now it was fine.

He tested the give in the bindings; it would be tricky, but not impossible. _Maybe—_

Mark ambled back from the table twirling a kitchen knife in his hand absently flipping it from handle to tip and back again. Reese fidgeted, letting Mark think he was nervous. Once that was established, the agent would dismiss any movement of his feet altogether. Reese kept his eyes on the knife, watching as it glinted in the almost-dark of the warehouse. It twirled around Mark's hand and Reese passively observed, all the while eager for Mark's hand to slip that it might slice open his wrist, because wouldn't that be divine justice?

It didn't. Reese smothered his disappointment; it had been a long shot.

"Its shocking that something so simple, used daily by chefs worldwide can be so multipurpose. What do you think John? Isn't it amazing how something as trivial as a kitchen knife is the most common murder weapon of choice?"

"I didn't know that, Mark."

"No, I suppose trivia never was your thing, was it John?" Mark flipped the knife some more the shiny metal flashing in the dim lighting. Slowly, so he could see it coming, Mark pressed the tip into his shoulder and dragged downwards. The knife was sharp. Its first mark was so cleanly done all he experienced was a quick starburst of pain followed by the tacky warmth of blood.

Mark adjusted his hand grasping closer to the blade allowing him more control over the weapon. The man's next incision laid a path of fire curving from shoulder to hip, causing Reese to exhale sharply. Blood bloomed across the collar of Reese's shirt as he drew a shaky breath. Seeping down it followed the knife's trail in an obscene splatter of red.

Reese winced. "I liked that shirt."

Mark tapped the blade against Reese's cheek, looking thoughtful for a moment, before shaking his head and muttering to himself as he moved on. He stepped back to observe his work, searching Reese's face for answers he wouldn't give.

"Red suits you, John."

"I prefer blue."

He tried to center himself, focusing through the pain, and it worked a little to help keep the soft cries buried at the back of his throat, but he couldn't prevent the tightening of his jaw or the clench of his hands. They as good as shouted out to Mark. Reese felt a surreal detachment setting in, wrapping around his mind like slick oil; thick and viscous, it began to drown out Mark's humming and the nervous tap of Evans' fingers against the wall.

Part of him wanted to embrace it, to slink off to lick his wounds where Mark and his humming and his knifes could not reach. But it's not in his nature to shy away, and so his attention focused and retreated at random. Pain riddled him full of aching gasps and suppressed screams one instant and the next left him detached from his body and it's many hurts.

Reese withdrew to the back alleys of his mind and in his moments of perfect numbness, he thought of Jessica, laughing in the rain the sun shining down like a halo of gold over her head, and he smiled. It was a nice thought now that her memory didn't bleed like it used to. No longer a steady outpour of blood from a wound he couldn't stitch back together again. And then there was Finch. Finch with his steady gaze, his firm belief in their higher cause, and the hint of lemon he always smelled of after a shower.

Reese inhaled deep, and pretended.

"John?" That was his name, but that wasn't Finch's voice. Reese ignored it. He pictured New York at night, the lights shining and bright across the sky until he could almost hear the gentle thrum of traffic below. _Constant and steady and –_

"John!" Not Finch, Mark. He didn't want anything to do with Mark. "Hey buddy, no skipping out on me there. It isn't polite."

He didn't have a choice. Reese groaned, crashing back into a reality that left every part of him hurting. "There we go. Good of you to join us again, John" Mark said patting his cheek as he dragged a four-corner chair to them. Evans did the same. Finger by finger, Mark uncurled Reese's clenched hand, whistling Lassie-Come-Home.

Reese wondered if Finch knew the second more sensitive place on the human body were the fingers. Probably. Finch knew everything. _Except, maybe, were he was –_

If Finch knew that, _Reese_ wouldn't be here—

Blood dripped in rivulets down his arms, over Evans restraining hand, and down, down to the grate below.

Reese screamed.

_That had hurt._

Mark kept at it, and Reese kept rotating the ropes binding his feet until he felt some give. Grunting in effort, Reese used the momentum of his lower body to land his feet into Marks stomach, knocking him on his ass.

Reese enjoyed his minor victory while it lasted.

In the long run it had been a rookie move. _"Never anger the man with the gun – or in this case, the knife."_ But the look on Marks face?

That made it worthwhile and he would take his victories where he could because it was looking more and more likely Mark was going to win this round. And with his hands tied to lead pipes above his head, the odds of escape were looking bad.

He was _John Reese_, not Houdini.

Evens scrambled to help the older agent to his feet but Mark shoved him away, a dangerous look in his eye. "Mr. Evans, remove Mr. Reese's shoes."

"Mr. Snow-"

"That's an order Agent Evans."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

**-000000000-**

* * *

Detective Carter had come up empty, and the Machine had chosen now, when he needed it most, to _fail_. Logically Finch knew the Machine was a compilation of processing software and therefore not actually sentient. It didn't care that something other than It, and the _Numbers_, had begun to unbalance the scales in Finch's ordered life. It was a Machine.

Finch threw his cup to the floor in pique of frustration. Ceramic splattered across the floor in a shower of white. Twenty-fours hours, and still he had nothing. So much for pulling a Copperfield if he couldn't even nail down Mr. Snows location. The phone he'd used to contact Carter had been tossed, a burn phone for shady dealings that would leave the agent untouchable.

Mr. Snow had covered all his angles, and Finch was out of ideas. He had gotten a license plate but that had been a dead end. Carter had arrived on the scene to find nothing but an empty van that had been stolen hours prior. Mr. Snow had driven the unmarked vehicle down the wharf where WIFI connections were poor and cameras limited. This time the Machine had been outfoxed.

There were a great many factors he could attribute the failure to, but in the end he always came back to the same cause. Himself. He should have seen this coming, prepared for it better, but even then he wondered. Was there preparing for operatives like Mr. Snow?

Finch rubbed the bridge of his nose, figuring the odds, but it was impossible. There was no way to know definitively. _Too many damned variables._

It was illogical but he thought he should have known because this concerned Mr. Reese. He made it a point to know everything where his _employee-friend-partner_ was concerned. Most days he dismissed it as precaution. But more and more, he began to locate the true source of this new habit.

No. If anyone is to blame for this debacle it is Mr. Snow. His resolution lasted for three beats of his heart, his eyes catching at his own distorted reflection in the screen he peered into. Good Lord, he looked awful with blue smudges under his eyes and messy hair. His hair was never messy, ever, and yet there it was sticking upward in untidy defiance. Mussed to the point of comedy. He'd no idea short hair could possibly be this disorderly. Mr. Reese would laugh to see him now. And what he wouldn't give to hear it –

"He isn't dead yet." The words hung in the air, spoken aloud to himself because no one else was there to say it to, and with them his resolve was restored. Until he had a body of proof, he would assume John was alive. Anything else was unimaginable.

Finch crouched down, his bones creaking protest after hours spent in his chair. He would clean this up, then he would run through the city cameras again; but this time he would pray to every deity known to man as he did it. Finch could use a miracle right about now.

The phone rang. Finch, startled from his thoughts, fumbled for the cell phone device with anxious hands. "Detective Fusco."

"Yeah, here's what I got. There's going to be something going down on 174 Perry Street, y'know that old abandoned Barolo warehouse." Finch nodded, realized Fusco could not actually see him and thanked him. Fusco wasn't done though. "It was a lot less trouble than I figured it'd be. I know a CI who'll rat for the FBI and the CIA – when the moneys tight, y'know?"

Finch hummed vaguely, his brain sparking in a million different directions as he planned the best course of action for a rescue, and the best players to have on the field. Not Carter, she had been dangerously close to compromised by Mr. Snow last time. If she showed up on Mr. Snows radar again in such close proximity to Mr. Reese the consequences had the possibility of being far-reaching. That left him with Fusco.

Finch blinked tuning back to the conversation. He hoped he hadn't missed anything pertinent that would prove awkward. "- I know it's your guy because word is this prisoner is known for capping scumbags in the kneecaps. Hey, you hearin' me, Finch?"

"Loud and clear detective."

"Alright then…" Fusco sighed into the cell "These kinds of people don't mess around y'know? They are going to work your partner 'til he sings like a fuckin' canary. Now I know Mr. Sunshine's a tough as shit special forces guy or som'thin', but are you sure you're, you know…safe…wherever it is you are?"

If Fusco's words hadn't made his stomach roil unpleasantly, images of Mr. Snow's past interrogations violently rising to the surface, Finch might have been able to appreciate the Detectives concern. As it stood, he did not. Finch inhaled sharply, his voice not at all appreciative when he replied, "Thank you Detective for that colorful metaphor."

Finch licked his lips. Having not bothered with the air ventilations this morning the room had become uncomfortably warm. "However, that is not your concern."

Fusco snorted. "Yeah, right. I tell you som'thin Mr. Finch my life would be a helluva lot simpler if you both disappeared. But you know the real kicker? I kind a like the guy - and you" Fusco tagged on. _"A polite afterthought," _Finch thought with more than a little amusement. Fusco preferred the man who regularly stuck a gun in his face to the one who listened in on his every conversation? _Oh, Right. Privacy invasion._

Most people took offense to that. Finch had to frequently remind himself that Mr. Reese was unique in that he didn't seem to care. But then Mr. Reese was used to his personal life being under scrutiny being ex-CIA. At any rate, Finch allowed him the illusion of privacy -

Finch grimaced cutting off that thought. As the lines blurred, as they so often did, it became harder to remember that just because something was tolerated didn't make it acceptable, didn't make it better. And Mr. Reese, _John_, deserved better.

Fusco hadn't hung up breathing into the phone, out of words. "You know som'thin else. Without that scary son of bitch, at the end of the day, I'd still be a dirty cop."

Finch didn't know what to say. Mr. Reese always took care of these sorts of issues. "_But Mr. Reese isn't here, I am." _

"If you really mean that Detective you'll meet me at three blocks from the Barolo warehouse in thirty minutes. And please do bring your gun."

"Yeah, yeah, I figured as much. But you ever tell him I said any of that and…well, I'd say I'd kill ya, but we both know that ain't gonna happen. Your boy'd pop me faster than you can say hippopotamus. So, just don't go sayin' anythin' and we're square."

"You help me resolve this, and I will take it to my grave, Detective."

"Yeah, alright, one suicide mission coming up."

The line cut out and Finch grabbed Mr. Reese's bag of weapons, and the first aid kit he'd bought after working their second Number together. The man accumulated wounds like most people collected…whatever it was normal people collected. Finch made his way down the stairs, the bag thumping against his hip, and the scent of metallic and gun oil strong in his nose.

The only thing missing was a whiff of coffee. If he pretended he could almost hear the soft-pad of footsteps behind - but then, that's when the fantasy fell apart. Mr. Reese didn't make noise when he walked.

Finch paused at the foot of the stairs. _"In thirty minutes it will be over, one way or another. In thirty minutes I'll see Mr. Reese, John. In thirty minutes we might both be dead." _He smiled, a thing both bitter and at ease. _"God help me, but I'm all right with that."_

This had always been a suicide mission, him and his irrelevant Numbers, that had been the plan. Mr. Reese had changed all that. Mr. Reese had changed a great many things. Finch looked around the abandoned library from the bottom of the stairs; it just wasn't the same without Mr. Reese lurking about in the corners and the hollow niches of the building.

Finch hefted the bag higher over his shoulder and strode down to his town car with purpose in his stride; he shut the door and instructed his driver on directions. "Mr. Novak, what goes on today you will forget tomorrow, as we understood? You will never speak of it with anyone, not even your Anja."

"Understood, Mr. Finch."

"You will a receive a check of twenty-thousand a week from now for your discretion."

"Anja will be pleased. With that we can send little Danny to a good school."

"You're a good man Mr. Novak," Finch said quietly, and returned his attentions to the GPS locator on Fusco who would arrive at their join destination in approximately three minutes. Finch leaned against the window to hide the annoying tremble of his hand. _"Please. Don't let me be to late."_

* * *

**-000000000-**

* * *

Consciousness returned in fits and starts, but before that came the sharp twinge running across his entire body, the pain writhed through him hunting out all the places that stung, and made them burn. Reese's eyes snapped opened, awareness returning in a shock of aches and throbs that tore an unwilling gasp from his throat. Reese could have laughed, but it would sound too bitter, so he didn't. He was alive.

With his body a taut line of raw-nerves stretched to the brink, light-headed from blood loss, blood accumulating at an alarming rate, he hadn't thought to ever wake again. Maybe it would have been better not to. His situation hadn't changed; there was no way to remove the handcuffs binding him.

Evans and Mark were standing three feet to the left. Evans was gesturing dramatically in an attempt to make his point. It wouldn't work. The only person Mark Snow listened to was Mark Snow. That and his orders of the day; the rest mattered little to the man.

"He doesn't know anything, Mr. Snow!"

"What, are you a mind reader now?" Mark snorted, "Trust me, he knows something."

"With all due respect, sir, I doubt very much if he's going to share" Evans sighed, removing his glasses to clean the lenses. Reese could see specks of blood smeared across them. "I think if he knew something, after…after _that_, he would have said so, wouldn't he?"

Mark sighed, shaking his head his persona of _Man in Charge_ cracking around the edges for the first time. "I don't know. John Reese was always stupid loyal like that. Maybe he knows something, maybe not. My bet is he does."

Reese closed his eyes, listening. He'd take what break time was on offer while they argued it out over his _unconscious_ body.

"Do you really think he'd die for this mysterious boss of his?" Evans asked, his tone dubious. Mark snorted, "Yeah, that or to make my life difficult."

_"Right, because everything's about you, right Mark?"_ Reese hung limp and motionless from the chains, arms burning, and chest tight with a deficiency of oxygen that left him woozy in the aftermath. _"You arrogant son of a bitch."_

"I just don't think-"

"Good, it might be best if you don't."

Mark approached, his thumb digging into the joint between shoulder and collarbone until Reese was gritting his teeth and fully aware, to aware if the screaming of his muscles was anything to go by.

"Hello John."

"Hello Mark."

Mark strolled around to look him in the eye; his hands entrenched in his pockets. Reese couldn't understand why he hadn't taken the coat off. This warehouse had given him a whole new appreciation for roast-turkey on thanksgiving.

"What am I going to do with you, John? You won't talk; you won't even give me a hint. What do you think I should do with you?"

"You could let me go" Reese said. "I served my country, and my country had me shot in the back."

Mark snorted. "You're country owes you, eh? Not very patriotic of you soldier."

"Not feeling very patriotic, right now."

_Beep._

"Sorry, I have to take that."

Mark stepped out to take his call. Mark picked up his gun from the table, an audible click signaling his intentions as he cocked back the hammer. Marks face was unreadable, but Reese saw something like an apology in the way he was looking at him now, the pause of his finger over the trigger, and the frown pursing his mouth.

"I'm sorry John, really, I am-"

Reese kept his silence looking him in the eye, waiting for the sound of the bullet that would kill him. Mark lowered the gun, slow and cautious, his shoulders tense with the weight of his actions. "Ah hell, John" he said, and nothing else as he tucked the gun into his trousers. Evans stood to the side, a bundle of questions on the tip of his tongue, a confused look on his face. Reese knew he was probably wearing the same one.

"You feel like a coffee Evens?" Mark didn't wait for an answer. "I feel like a coffee." He paused at the exit, looking back over his shoulder, "You coming?"

"Right, yes, sir, right away."

"Good."

Evans almost ran into Marks back when the older man halted, abruptly, at the exit, the door propped open by his foot, the sound of traffic and specks of light seeping inward. "You have twenty minutes John."

"Sir? I don't understand-"

"Evens, shut up."

Mark left, taking Evans with him but leaving the two guards at the door. What did Mark think? That he could pull a Houdini if no one was looking? Reese cursed, low and filthy because here was the perfect chance to escape, but he couldn't. He had no key, no leeway with the ropes, and he wasn't Superman. He couldn't pull down the pipe welded to the wall.

There was still no escape. _Except –_

Reese laughed, sweat streaking down the angles of his face salty and bitter across his cut lip. Mark was giving him a different kind of out. Not escape, not really. But a way out, all the same.

Reese stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, but could have been no more than minutes, deciding. He would do this his way. A countdown playing out in his head, Reese turned his attentions inward, brushing past the aches of the body down to the core. Measuring his breaths to the beat of his heart, slow and deep at first, each one taking less oxygen then the last until it faltered to a barely there whisper, washing against his lungs like the tang of an aphrodisiac.

Awareness faded out, as the warehouse began to dim like a lightless room. By the end of Marks twenty-minute countdown consciousness was no longer something Reese could participate in as his body shut down.

_What would Finch think to know…_

_…He had an off switch, too._

* * *

**-000000000-**

* * *

Evans noticed first. Agent Reese wasn't breathing. He pressed two fingers to the mans neck but there was no pulse. Instinctively, he began to perform CPR until Agent Snow yanked him away, violently.

"What? You're going to resuscitate him, to shoot him?"

Evans froze. He hadn't even thought of that. Mark released his iron grip on his collar, shoving him away. "That's what I thought. No, this is better, this is clean" Mark said staring at the dead man with a strange expression Evan's couldn't decipher. "He…stopped his own heart? How is that even possible? I didn't get that memo…"

Mark pulled a flask from his jacket, Evans stared, "We aren't supposed to drink on the job…" he said. "Is that a no?" Mark asked offering him a drink. Evans didn't hesitate, downing three gulps that left him hacking at the burn of alcohol.

Mark held up his flask, in a mockery of honor.

"To John Reese. Super-fucking-Solider."

Evans stared at the dead man, the man they were drinking to, and felt his gorge rise. He had to rush towards the garbage bin as his expensive latté and coffee came up, the alcohol tasting even worse on the way out, bitter and acrid on his tongue. Mark didn't laugh, didn't make fun, just patted his shoulder with something like consolation and walked past him.

"When you're done there, clean this mess up Agent Evans. We have a plane to catch bound for Syria in fifty minutes. We'll be going in dark, so if you have an personal affairs to see to, I suggest you hurry."

Evans snorted, air quoting. "Going in dark? I thought that only happened in spy novels."

Mark pivoted on his heel, grinning. "Kid, you're living one, buck up."

"I'm James Bond" Evans said, mostly to himself, his nausea dying down as he played out the movie fantasy of fast cars and femme fatales. It beat the realty of digging graves and blood splattered glasses and interrogation techniques.

"Sure, kid, if James Bond wore suits off of convenience store racks."

Evans snuck a glance down, his mouth hanging down at his partners teasing. "What's wrong with my suits?"

"Nothing. If you're going for government issue."

Mark left him standing in an abandoned building with a dead body to bury, and his mouth hanging open, a strange cocktail of horror and laughter bubbling under his skin. He didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or cry.

Agent Evans did neither. Outside, the heat was blistering, hot and unforgiving it beat down on his back as he used the shovel Mark had been nice enough to leave for him as he dug a grave behind the warehouse.

"To John, fucking, Reese" he muttered, tossing back a swig of water. With a grunt and a heave Evans rolled the body into a shallowly dug grave. Mark would kill him if he knew, but who was going to tell?

Mr. Reese wouldn't be telling anyone anything ever again.

* * *

**-000000000-**

* * *

There were no guards; this was the first thing Fusco saw. That could either be a very good thing, or very bad. He was betting on the second. The sun was setting casting a piercing glare in the Northward direction as he rounded the corners, double-checking before he signaled for Finch to follow. No point him waiting in the car like a sitting duck, least of all if no one was home.

This part of town could be dangerous after dark and Reese would kill him if anything happened to his partner. Besides he kind of liked the little guy. It took guts to come out here like he had. Fusco liked people with guts. "The perimeter is clear, no sign of any Mr. Snow or anyone else for that matter."

Finch approached, his gait stiff and uneven, worse for his anxiety Fusco assumed. "That can't be good."

Fusco jerked the door open. Going in gun first, Finch close behind with the flashlight. "Yeah" he said, "that's what I thought."

"You know if you're so smart and all, couldn't you figure a way to turn on these lights?" Fusco asked, squinting as he almost slipped. The floor was wet, and that was odd for a supposedly abandoned warehouse. Maybe this hadn't been a bust after all.

"That I am good with computers does not mean I can snap my fingers and make things happen," Finch said, "It would be necessary for me to see the wiring and the control panel, before I could determine whether I could do something about the lighting. I am not a mechanic."

"Don't need to bite my head of there, I was just saying." Fusco felt the soles of his shoes slide again and grabbed onto a chair, it was odd finding a single chair in the middle of an abandoned warehouse. He froze.

_Wait a minute, wet floors, and a single chair?_

The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he swallowed past a mouth gone suddenly dry, but he kept his cool. "Hey, Finch, pass the flashlight. I think I got something here."

Directing the flashlight at the floor, Fusco found himself glad he had skipped out on dinner. His ex-wife's cooking was bad enough going down, burnt lamb and crunchy broccoli had never been his favorites. He kept the light trained on the flooring so that they could attempt to maneuver around the suspicious red puddles.

He'd bet his left kidney it was blood. Fusco could only imagine what Finch thought staring at all that red splattered across the floor, knowing it had to have been Reese's. He'd been here alright. But from the looks of it, they were too late.

"What happened here?" Finch asked, his voice a hoarse whisper, shaky at the edges. Fusco tried not to think to much about the answer. "If you ask me, looks to be an interrogation. See a chair with ropes and blood on the floor says that they had some questions for – for our, uh, mutual friend."

Fusco flashed the light some more when he saw the empty handcuffs dangling from the warehouse pipes. "Ah hell" he cursed, navigating around the red pools as he approached. He did a quick survey but there was no Reese, and no dead body, just more blood. Enough that this place looked like something out of a horror flick. It made his stomach twist to think anybody had gone out like this, hung like a fish on a line.

Fusco looked over his shoulder at Finch but the man didn't see him, all he was seeing was the red splashed all over the floor. He was breathing fast and shallow, his face leeched of any color leaving him pasty and sick looking as he stood there in the almost total darkness trying to catch his breath. So far, it wasn't working. Great, the guy was going to have a panic attack.

Fusco struggled to remind himself that the man had just lost his partner. Clearly Mr. Reese had been more than just an employee. Hell, if Fusco showed up dead in a ditch somewhere his boss would say a few words, maybe, drink a beer in his name in the bar he frequented across from the department. But he wouldn't have a panic attack over it, and he wouldn't be turning that sickly white Finch was turning, either. There was something else going on here, or had been leastwise from the looks of it.

Fusco adopted the voice he used for runaway teens and crying babies. Patronizing, yeah maybe, but Finch needed a bit of that right now. Fusco patted his shoulder awkwardly. "Easy their Mr. Finch, deep breaths, okay?"

Finch shuddered, ran a hand over his face, and composed himself once more. He turned away and began making his back towards the door without a single word. Fusco snorted. _"Yeah, your welcome."_

"I apologize detective, it looks like I won't be needing your services after all. You are free to go."

"Now wait just a damn minute there, that's it?"

"My friend is dead Detective, so yes, that is it." Finch kept going, his words drifting back to Fusco over his shoulder. He wasn't really talking to him anymore, either. "I need a drink, several I think."

Fusco hurried after him. Finch looked in a bad way, and drinking alone like that was never a good idea. Fusco knew cops who'd done stupid stuff drinking alone in memory of the dead. "You know what, so could I."

"I don't recall inviting you, Detective."

"Yeah, well, I'm inviting myself."

Finch paused, his shoulders a bowed as he swung the car door open with more force than necessary. "I appreciate the concern, Detective. But I'm fine." The driver glanced back with concern but refrained from speaking. He was probably paid good money to keep it that way, too.

Fusco mulled that over for all of a second before shrugging, "I'm not, and I didn't even really know the guy, so I think maybe we should share that drink."

"-You know what I'll even pay, how's that sound?"

"Suit yourself, Detective."

Finch got in his fancy town car complete with the stoic face-forward driver, and slid to the far left, it was as good an invitation was he was going to get and Fusco knew it. Finch instructed the driver and they put the warehouse in the rear view mirror.

Neither man looked back.


	5. Chapter 5

The bar was loud. The music alone would be enough to leave him with a headache of epic proportions, and the three drinks he'd already topped off would certainly add an unpleasant head-exploding kind of fun to the mix when he woke up tomorrow morning. The waiters were hassled, tired, working women whose smiles were so obviously forced it looked painful. But they served the drinks promptly, and kept them coming which was all Finch required.

Drunkenness – the most common self-medication for the guilty, or the mourning.

Finch was an ugly blend of both, with a head full of _'what ifs'_. Finally he understood why Reese had chosen this, slower, poison. It was very – effective. Yes, that was the word. _Effective._

Finch stared down into the amber liquid. It wasn't salvation in a bottle, it wasn't even a cure, just a blend of alcohol and something fruity to balm the palette. Even addled Finch understood that. But for tonight, he needed to pretend it was. The library was out of bounds for now. In every silence he would be holding his breath, waiting for Reese's teasing flirt. _"Late night, Harold?"_ he might ask, his eyes lighting across his person in a manner that never failed to make Finch squirm. He'd never have that again. Not that it had ever really been his. But it could have been for a night, a day, a week…

However long, or short, it could have been more than _this_.

"So what'll it be, hon?" asked a new waitress. _'Sophie'_ their previous one had clocked out at 9:30, sharp. The new girl was younger and prettier if one liked tall, curvy blonds with bubbly personalities. Fusco must, from the way he was looking at her, quite inappropriately too for a man of his age. "A scotch, on the rocks" he said, embarrassed on Fusco's behalf.

The girl seemed oblivious. Maybe she was just being kind. "Shaken, not stirred?" she asked, her eyes sparkling. Finch grimaced. Of all days this was not the one for James Bond quips. They reminded him of what he had come here to forget. But then so did the 9mm Browning Fusco was wearing, and the suit the man three booths down was wearing, a plain black on white affair left unbuttoned at the throat for casual company.

Mr. Reese's tall form had worn it far better, too.

"I don't care" he said, aware he was being irrational but unable to stop. The waitress didn't look hurt at his grumbling, but her smile faltered. "Sure thing, hon" she said gently, "I'll make sure they keep 'em coming, too."

"Thank you" he flicked a glance at her tag, "Miss Angie."

"Yeah, and I'll have a whiskey" Fusco said jumping in before she disappeared back into the bustle of 9 o'clock rush hour at Sam's Bar & Grill. "Sure thing, Detective" she said with a teasing wink.

"What – how?" Fusco losing his wits when faced with a beautiful woman could barely finish his sentence. "Do you always wear your badge after hours?" the waitress asked, her smile softening the barb as she sauntered off. Finch sighed. Maybe she liked older men. It would explain her flirtation with the Detective.

Finch slammed down his scotch so hard that the glass fractured, spider webs of cracked veins popping up along the sides. "I think you've had enough, Finch," the Detective said, not nearly as drunk as he should be.

"No, I haven't had nearly enough, Detective." Finch signaled for their waitress again. Blond, perky, her cheer more real than some of the others, he found her more tolerable than the last that had sloshed out their drinks with a detached bitterness. But not this one, she was for lack of a better word, sweet. If Reese had been here –

"Another, please."

— she would have drooled all over him.

The waitress smiled and bobbed her head, her ponytail swishing as she hurried off. 'Angie' it read across her shirtfront. Finch suspected most men who frequented this bar didn't get past her generous bosom to see her name scrawled in delicate twirls. She came back with his drink, and a side of fries he hadn't ordered.

"You look sad. Fries wont make wrongs right, but they sure will help settle your stomach after a binge night!" she said, sliding the basket towards him. Finch barely had time to thank her before she was off again. The drunk across the room wanted another beer.

Fusco raised an eyebrow. "That sure was nice of her," he said grabbing a handful of fries. "Yes, it was, I can only wonder why," Finch said, pulling them closer. Fusco fixed him with a strange look. The one that screamed _'You're paranoid' _Finch knew this because he'd received it frequently. "Y'know, sometimes people just do stuff, for the hell of it, or occasionally because they're just nice like that. It happens."

An awkward silence stretched between them, the first awkwardness of the night, which was even more surprising. Fusco hurried to end it with a toast.

"— To nice people?" the Detective said raising his shot glass. "To good people" Finch corrected, and there was no need to speak any names. Fusco knew whom he meant. "To good people," Fusco said, and finished off his drink.

Halfway through his second round Finch's phone rang, an annoying chirp that would not desist. Fumbling, his coordination well on its way to shot, he flipped it open and listened to a ghost speaking his name.

"Hello Finch," the voice on the other side and the bottom dropped out of Finch's stomach. Nausea roiled in his belly as he clutched the phone to his ear, words replaying in his head as he dissected the voice on the other end from tone, texture, and the low level murmur of the words. It could only mean one thing.

Mr. Reese, _John_, was alive. He wasn't dead.

"—Finch, you still with me?" Reese said, his tone too light to be true, the words tight-laced and precise. _"Reese is in pain," _was the first thought to go through Finch's head. _"Reese is supposed to be dead"_ was the second.

"—I hope I didn't catch you at a bad time."

"John?"

Fusco tensed in his booth, face filled with a cautious hope. Finch swallowed, restating the obvious as his mind stalled. "You're not dead."

Tomorrow he would insist he never said any such thing and did not in fact remember most of the night's events. Tonight, he does not mind. Hearing Reese's breathy laughter transmitted through the myriad wires and electronics made the knot in his gut unwind, and the stone sitting on his chest dissipate.

"Missed you too, Harold" Reese said, but his pause between words was fast becoming worrisome to Finch. "John, where are you?"

"Central Park."

"Are you badly hurt?"

"How bad is badly, Finch?" Reese asked, and Finch knew he'd be wearing that stoic _'I'm going to grit my teeth until kingdom come' _look on his face with his eyes fever-bright and alert. Bad, then. Very bad, even.

His thoughts became splintered hexagons as he sat there motionless, holding the cell phone to his ear and listening to his friends labored breathing, all of them twirling around one impossible fact.

_Mr. Reese was alive._

"Well, come on then," Fusco said hailing the waitress and tossing down two fifties. Maybe he was feeling charitable, maybe he was just as anxious as Finch to leave, except he was capable of moving. Finch was afraid to move, to breathe too hard, or to even look away from the phone in his hand. _What if he lost his connection?_

"— Finch, your friend needs you, like, now."

Finch looked down at the phone. "John, I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"In New York traffic? Don't go wrapping your fancy town car around a pole on my account," Reese said, with practiced boredom. Reese made an illegible sound, tacking on, "I'll be…here."

Finch's mouth quirked up as he shuffled along beside Detective Fusco down the block, Mr. Novak would meet them halfway as per instructed when Finch paged him, an old fashioned method, but as good as any text.

"Did I ever tell you Mr. Reese? I was once a taxi driver in Manhattan."

"I didn't know that, Harold. Were you any good?"

"The best. Twenty minutes, John" he reiterated before sliding the phone into his suit pocket. Mr. Novak opened the driver's door for him, sliding into shotgun, leaving the Detective to hop into the back. Finch stepped on the gas, his course set for Central Park. It was time to break some speeding laws.

"You know there's rules against goin' this fast, Finch!" The Detective hugged the car door as they slammed into a turn, honking trailing after them like an announcer. "They are irrelevant as of right now, Detective," Finch said, his eyes never leaving the road. The Detective snorted quietly, gripping his seatbelt. "Alright, just thought I should say."

"You have. Now kindly be quiet."

Mr. Novak, sat calmly to Finch's right, saying nothing though sweat beaded on his brow, the hand in his pocket clutching his rosary.

_"This Mr. Reese; he must matter very much."_

* * *

-000000000-

* * *

_Hours Prior:_

Reese had woken up lots of ways, in lots of places. To gunfire, bombs, a burglar that one time in Maine, and once with a knife at his throat. Stanton of course, testing his reflexes, she had said. But waking with six pounds of dirt smashing him into a shallow dug grave was, by far, the worst. With dirt in his mouth, eyes, and scraping along the opens wounds, he couldn't move. Worse still, he couldn't_ breathe. _

He bucked and twisted, shifting the dirt piled on top repeatedly until breathing became something he could do. Reese inhaled deeply, sprawled beside what had been meant as his grave. There were a million things he should do, namely call Finch. That sounded a good place to start, in theory, but that required a phone, and he had none. Mark had seen to that. He could retrieve one, or steal one, but that would require moving. Reese wasn't ready for any kind of moving yet. His head lolled to the side, the stars shining dimly from millions of miles away.

_"Just another moment…"_

"Hey, hey dude, are you dead or something," a bony finger prodded Reese's shoulder, the sharp burn of pain, as much as the voice, ushering him back into wakefulness. He would have rather put it off longer. Without opening his eyes he gauged that it was a little past 9 O'clock, New York nights didn't cool down fast, but it was almost twenty degrees cooler than the last time he'd been conscious. His moment had stretched several hours longer than he'd planned.

Reese pulled himself into a sitting position, assessing the man who'd prodded him; he couldn't have been more than thirty. From the twitches, shakes, and needle tracks he didn't bother to hide Reese deduced he was a junkie.

"Shit, this shit is wild!"

Reese swallowed wetting his lips, cracked and dry from the days heat, his voice rough and scratchy, "I need to borrow your phone."

The junkie laughed, a wheezing bark that made Reese wince. "I don't have those things, they're dangerous dude, don't you know the Man is listening in on us with them, no, I don't use those things, dangerous."

The junkie stopped laughing suddenly, narrowing his eyes as he focused on Reese. He whistled, shaking his head. 'What'd you do? Go a round with Bigfoot, dude?" he made what Reese assumed was supposed to be a sympathetic sound in the back of his throat. Humming and hawing to himself, the man looked him over. Reese didn't care for his narrow-eyed scrutiny but tolerated it because he had no choice. He could barely move, hours of being strung up and worked over taking their toll in stiff muscles and creaking bones. _Fuck_, when had he gotten so old?

Reese clenched his hands, flinched, and immediately loosened his empty grip.

"Hey I got an idea!" the junkie said, his eyes bright and dilated, smiling as though struck by his own genius. "Here! I got something that'll take the edge off anything!"

"No, I'm good thanks" Reese said, easing his body backwards until his shoulders hit the solid mass of the warehouse. The junkie waved him off, digging through his tattered duffel bag. "Trust me, dude, you want this shit."

Sweat beading on Reese's brow, panic brewing in his chest, he shoved. Hard. Smearing blood on the junkie's ripped jeans. The other man wobbled, but didn't fall, grunting his annoyance as he flicked his needle like a Psychotic Nurse Ratchet. "Don't even worry, dude, this will having you feeling no pain. And see, that way you wont need no doctors, they're all commies y'know."

Reese levered himself to his feet, took two steps, and promptly landed on his ass. "Don't" he said, a harsh rumble that forced the junkie to look him in the eye. He frowned looking between the needle and Reese before shrugging, "its your funeral."

"Yeah, and I'm looking to postpone" Reese murmured. Straightening his shoulders he turned to his Good Samaritan. With something a little like a plead, and a lot like an order, Reese said: "help me to a payphone."

The junkie ducked under Reese's shoulder, muttering, and chattering all the while. "Damn, you're a tall dude, what did you're people feed you growing up?" a long pause transpired when Reese failed to answer, teeth gritting back a shout as he put weight on his feet. The junkie huffed, "you sure are a chatty Kathy aren't you – hey, what's you're name, dude?"

"John."

The junkie chuckled. "Fine! Be like that. Everybody's 'John' out here. Least your not a John Doe, like I thought you was going to be when I first spotted you." Reese grunted inarticulately as he hobbled along, all the while thinking, just a little farther. After that,well he hadn't planned beyond his phone call. Reese just knew he had to make it. Finch could sort him out from there. He was good at that.

* * *

-000000000-

* * *

If Finch hadn't known Reese as well as he did it would have taken him an extra fifty seconds to trace the call. He didn't need to. There were only three payphones located in Central Park, he'd checked. And of them there was only one with the kind of location Mr. Reese would have chosen. The one with the higher vantage point had an upward sloping pavement that would appeal to Reese's sniper abilities, and the copse of trees ten feet behind would do in a pinch. These things would make it Reese's first choice. The Detective hurriedly snapped on his seatbelt in the back, his grip on the door white-knuckled as he made quips to bury his discomfort. Car horns and screeching tires trailed in his wake but Finch was not bothered, each red light had been a calculated risk.

He was no good to Reese with his fancy town car wrapped around a pole, but his rush through the streets of New York would be an exercise in futility if the man bled out prior to his arrival. And that was unacceptable. Not now that he knew what he would be losing.

He pulled up vertically along the paved walkway; he left the keys in the ignition the motor a soft rumble amidst the otherwise quiet of the park as his eyes scanned the surroundings. He hobbled from the car as fast as his injury allowed. Everything was quiet and still, and so was Reese slumped at the base of the payphone, his suit thoroughly ruined with bloodstains and grime.

As for Mr. Reese – _John_ – he looked no better. Finch approached carefully, but with purposeful noise. Finch had no plans to startle the man now; he suspected the result would be entirely unpleasant. Finch crouched down awkwardly, very aware of Fusco's eyes on his back as he tapped Reese's ankle. He tried not to think to much about how bad it was that even that was smeared red.

"Harold," Reese said, his voice little more than a rough whisper of noise against the rumble of the town cars motor. He tried to get up. Finch found that rather telling, and worrying. His worry ratcheting up steeply when the movement was aborted, Reese breathing hard and fast were he sat. "John –" So many things to say, none of them right for this development. "John, everything is going to be fine," he finally decided on. _'It's okay' _seemed too trite.

Reese nodded, with an almost imperceptible dip of his chin.

"I need you to stand up now," Finch said ignoring the slippery wetness of fabric beneath his hand as he gripped Reese's shoulder. Reese's soft gasp was harder to ignore, as he ducked under his shoulder. Fusco, making use of himself, secured an arm around Reese's waist and together they got him into the backseat of the car. Mr. Novak wordlessly slipping into the drivers seat Finch had abandoned in favor of remaining with Reese's in the back. Finch checked Reese's wounds with a quiet franticness that left his heart pounding in his chest, and his hands deplorably unsteady.

He flicked on the car light, its weak beam painting an ugly picture of the past 24 hours. "Not my finest moment, Finch," Reese admitted breathing deep as fingers prodded and poked searching out broken bones.

Fusco shifted uncomfortably, Reese's blood seeping into his pants leg. The displacement of weight in the cramped backseat caught at Reese's attention. "You didn't say we were having a party, Harold," Reese said, his gaze flicking over Fusco, assessing, then dismissing as they unfocused again.

"as I thought," Finch muttered, "he has a concussion, mild I think but—"

Fusco banged the door in an uncommon show of emotion. "Head wounds are always dangerous, an' you can't exactly go waltzin' into the nearest hospital."

"No, I can't."

Reese mumbled into his shoulder where his head had dipped, and Finch straightened up. "I didn't quite catch that John."

"I said it isn't as bad as it looks."

Fusco snorted, "Pal, you look like death warmed over, and that's bein' kind." Finch felt Reese shifting, small precise movements as he straightened himself out. "Trust me, with a few stitches and a couple ace bandages and I'll be less death warmed over and more…bad day at the office."

Fusco snorted, running a hand through his short hair. "Well you're talkin' now at least, can't be doin' too badly." Fusco turned a little, his shoulders squared off against Reese's as he fixed him a look, a careful worry peeking through the hard lines of his face. "So, you think you're gonna make it?"

"Of course he will" Finch said sharply, taking care as he began peeling away corners of Reese's suit to asses the damage. With the bump and jostle of the street and the cramped space it was almost impossible to do more than press the torn pieces against the worst of the wounds and wait.

"Its nothing we can't fix," Finch reiterated. He didn't know who he's speaking to, Fusco, Reese, or himself. He caught Mr. Novak's eyes in the mirror but they reflected nothing but his own worry back onto him.

"Drop me off here then, since you're goin' to live and all," Fusco said. "I'll catch a cab the rest of the way." Finch nodded his assent and Mr. Novak pulled over and allowed the detective to exit the car. "Look after him better this time, will ya?" he said to Finch before resolutely shutting the car door and shuffling off into the dark.

"The library please, Mr. Novak," Finch instructed, barely lifting his eyes from the red slowly seeping onto his hands. It was sluggish, no longer the heavy bleeding from before. This was a good sign. But the way Reese's eyes were unfocused, glazed and nowhere near as sharp as he was accustomed worried him. "I need you to stay awake, John," Finch said, checking for a fever with a hand against Reese's forehead, which felt above average but not yet a problem. He pulled away, his fingers itching to card through the hair, sweaty and dirty as it was.

Finch was not a religious man, but tomorrow he would light a candle in every church from 25th to 3rd Street because clearly someone had been listening. He didn't believe in coincidence.

"You look worried, Harold," Reese said, letting the rest of his question hang unspoken. Finch met his eyes for the briefest moment, letting Reese see the truth in them when he answered. "I thought you were dead."

Reese didn't say anything for a long while, his breath ghosting across Finch's shoulder. Reality impinged on their moment when Reese's aches and pains throbbed too fiercely to be ignored. "I'm not – I'm not as young as I used to be Finch. It might take a few weeks before I'm, well, back on my feet" Reese confessed with a dry chuckle.

"Then I'll delegate the legwork to Fusco and Carter. You needn't concern yourself with that John," Finch said, repeating – because he felt it needed to be said at least once. "I really am glad you aren't actually dead."

"Me too, Finch." Reese reached over, forgetting the state of his hands due to his mild concussion, to pat Finch's hand in what was meant to be a comforting manner. It was somewhat ruined by the heavy smear he left across the other mans hand. Finch gasped, and he was not a man prone to gasping, as he held Reese's hand towards the weak beam of light – palm up.

Finch cursed roundly, the words spilling out in a careless jumble. "What the hell did they do to you, John?"

Reese kept his hands loose and limp in Finch's surprisingly tight grip, a wry smile edging onto his face. "It's alright, Harold, but I think I might need some patching up soon or I'm going to bleed all over your nice car."

Mr. Novak's eyes flicked back, just the once, drawn by Finch's unusual bout of cursing, his face becoming waxy pale. "Eyes forward, Mr. Novak" Finch said mildly. Reese had been through enough already. There was no need to subject him to more witnesses of what he would perceive as a weakness. Finch understood.

"We're there Mr. Finch," Mr. Novak assured him, and sure enough the library loomed high on their left. Finch eased out first glancing once at the door then back at Reese. The man hadn't moved at all, blinking at the abandoned building with increasingly unfocused eyes.

" – Will you be needing assistance, Mr. Finch?"

Mr. Novak had already become too involved in his affairs and Finch was loath to allow him in any farther. Regretfully, it would be time to switch drivers soon. He shook his head in the negative; "I can manage it from here Mr. Novak," he said with a clear dismissal.

Finch kept Reese steady with an arm around his waits, Reese leaning uncomfortably heavy across his left shoulder. "We need to get inside before we're noticed, John," Finch said shuffling them forward.

_One step. Two steps. Three…_

Seizing up, Reese's legs buckled on the third step and he nearly took Finch down with him as he knelt in the pavement, a dark flush high on his cheeks as he stared at the ground. Finch's heart clenched. He'd never seen Reese looking so lost. It didn't seem right. Anger, cold and detached, rose up in him. Mr. Snow would need to be dealt with – later. Right now he needed to get Reese inside before some nosy vagrant reported them both. Finch, for the second time that day, crouched down beside Reese.

"Mr. Reese? John? I need you to get up, now."

"I can't." A tremulous sigh on the cusp of a sob. Finch drew back at the sound as it lashed at his ears like the jagged shattering of something priceless. "Look at me Mr. Reese!" he demanded, and when he did, Finch refused to balk at the blankness closing in around the edges of his eyes. "Better," he praised, briefly, ever so briefly, tracing Reese neck – the only part of him not bleeding or bruised – and forced a smile. "You can," he said, and finding reserves previously unknown to him, he heaved them both to their feet. "You're John Reese. You can walk the twenty feet to the library."

Reese opened his eyes, clearer now, though lines of pain were writ in the tightness of his jaw. He stared down at Finch as though he'd never seen him before, the unnerving blankness fading to something new, indefinable. Reese swayed, braced himself, but leaned a little less on Finch, whose hip welcomed the lessened strain.

"I can…?"

Finch nodded stridently, still close, still ready to take back his added weight, injury and the pain meds that would follow be damned. "Yes, now come on. I'll help you."

"Okay." A couple steps in on his own two feet, Reese's words a barely-there whisper Finch was sure he hadn't been meant to hear. "For you."

From there it was easy, if slow going. Until today he had never realized there were so many steps, and never had he wished there were none more than he did now. The last of Reese's reserved were being drained. Finch had to help him to the spare bed he'd sequestered down the hall for those nights that he was too tried to make the trip to whatever safe house he was calling home. It was a rather transient world for him these days. But for today, it was the library.

Reese sat on the edge of the bed, waiting expectantly.

_Right, bandages…of course._

Finch gathered the necessary supplies while Reese slowly peeled off his clothes. If he hadn't been covered in bruises and cuts it would have been arousing. Reese undressing. In _his_ room – but as it stood Finch barely kept down his lunch. He didn't curse, not because he didn't feel the rising tide of obscenities lodged at the back of his throat; he did. But that wouldn't help. It might make _him_ feel better but that was low on his list of priorities. At the top was Reese, and he needed help.

Stripped to the waist Reese kept his face forwards, unmoving as Finch cleaned off the dried crusts and the open wounds with disinfectant and a towel, bandages neatly lined up at his side. Finch winced for him as he applied six neat stitches to the cut across Reese's bicep, and the twenty-six for the one that stretched from collarbone to hip in an ugly curve. Reese never made a sound. Finch wasn't sure whether to be impressed or horrified.

Reese would be unable to comfortably hold a gun for the next month. Finch was relieved to find the lacerations done to his hands, while painful, were overall superficial and needed only disinfectant and firm wrappings. Finch stepped back, nodded, and turned to leave the room. "I imagine they didn't take a time out from torturing you to feed you," he said, in explanation for Reese's curious look, the tension in the other mans shoulders loosening. "What, did you think I went to all this trouble, just to leave you now? No Mr. Reese, you are stuck with me," he said, color rising in his cheeks, "until you get back on your feet again."

Reese winced, his glance sliding away. "You'll hardly know I'm here," Finch promised, trying valiantly not to feel insulted.

"Its not that." Reese paused, "I –"

"What is it?" Finch said, running a critical eyes over Reese's body looking for something he might have missed when they fell to his shoes, the rucked up pants leg showing what had previously been a white sock.

"Oh," Finch breathed out, as he hobbled back to the bedside and knelt between Reese's knees. With careful hands he pried off the shoes, ignoring the squelch. If he focused on that he was going to lose his lunch. Next came the socks, paired with a few choice curses from Reese as the cheap material stuck to the soles of his feet, bleeding starting anew as the clots burst.

"I think we'll be needing stronger pain medication, Mr. Reese."

"I think you might be right, Finch."

"There's a drug store down the block," Finch said as he shuffled down the hall, stopping at the bookshelf containing Reese's cache of weaponry. Finch suppressed his own inherent dislike of guns and withdrew the .35 berretta, silencer attached, wordlessly placing it on the bedside table in easy reach.

Reese palmed it, understanding. "Thanks, Finch."

Some people's safety net was a homespun quilt, or a fireside chair, a good book, or a routine jog. Reese's was the cold metal of a gun beneath the calluses of his hand, and Finch would not begrudge him that. He'd been through enough. Finch understood the terror of having that ripped away. _His_ safety netwas lying in bed, cut to pieces.

Finch flicked the light on as he exited the room, privately vowing he would never intentionally leave Reese in the dark again. His back turned; he didn't see Reese's smile, a cautious, careful thing that for the briefest moment touched his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

Finch returned from his trip with stronger pain meds to find Reese asleep. He was reluctant to wake him. Sleep took years off of Reese face, the tension wrung out of him leaving Reese lax against the dark-pattered bedcovers, the lines at the corners of his eyes halved. Reese looked almost innocent. Finch smiled indulgently. _Yes, almost, but not quite._ That image was rather difficult to maintain when one took into account the gun cradled in a loose-handed grasp.

Reese made a soft, quiet sound, eyes moving rapidly behind closed lids, breaking the moment.

Finch approached, intentionally dragging his feet more than was necessary. It appeared Reese's dreams had become bothersome, his eyes moving rapidly behind closed lids, but otherwise remaining silent.

"John," he said, stopping at the foot of the bed. He knew how unnerving it could be to wake with someone's face peering down at you and he had no wish to subject Reese to that. "John!" he repeated, louder.

Reese bolted upright, gun steady in his hand and trained level with Finch's chest. Finch held up the bags, the gauzy plastic crinkling in the otherwise silent room. Reese clicked the safety back on his gun before slowly setting it aside.

"Two of these pills should help significantly," Finch explained, ignoring the incident, as he unwrapped the bottles. "And that?" Reese said nodding to the folded up paper bag. Finch tossed it to the bedside with a grin, "Food. A cheeseburger to be exact."

A wry smile flashed across Reese's face. "Finch" he said, paper bagging crunching in his enthusiasm. "I think I love you." Reese eyes flicked up, checking Finch's reaction presumably before he settled back to eat, affecting an easy lounge.

Finch struggled with a blush, experiencing the faint burn in his cheeks. He worried it did nothing for him but make him appear over exerted and odd, neither of which complimentary. "Well…" his voice squeaked, he cleared it – ignoring that it had ever done such a traitorous thing – and began again. "What might you have said if I'd brought a steak I wonder?" Finch teased, his tone once more dry and impeccable.

Reese chuckled, amusement bright in his eyes. "Marry me?" He tossed out with an absent shrug, cheeseburger half finished. Finch made a small, strangled sound in the back of his throat. Reese's grin widened. Finch, reigned to Reese's teasing made himself comfortable in the high backed chair located to the left of the bed, close enough to carry on a conversation without crowding, half heartedly wishing he had in fact picked up steak instead. It was good to see Reese in better spirits.

_He is bouncing back surprisingly fast, that, or it's the drug talking._ Finch decided it didn't particularly matter; Reese seemed content. Reese tossed the paper bag into the trash bin, an effortless hole in one, as it were. Finch leaned into his chair as Reese settled down on his back in the bed, neither quite ready to fill the comfortable silence that hung between them with words.

Reese broke first. His words were a soft-sharp murmur in the middle hours of the night. Finch had thought he was asleep. He had been. Any annoyance Finch might have harbored died down quickly when Reese began to speak. "He – they don't know anymore about you than they already did." His voice was steady, precise, but detached. "They don't know what it is we do, or about the Machine. I just thought you might want to know, Finch."

"That is good to know, Mr. Reese." Finch paused gathering his thoughts. "I know that what happened in that warehouse is something I'll never understand, but if you want – or need to talk about it, well" Finch swallowed, "I've been informed I'm a very good listener."

"I hope to God you never have to understand, Harold" Reese said his words thick with emotions, buried as they were through years of CIA conditioning they were still very much present. Mr. Snow hadn't broken him, but Finch could see the hairline fractures mapped across his psyche.

Right now all it would take was a little push – but no, that wouldn't happen. _"Over my dead body,"_ he thought as he kept his vigil at Reese's bedside. _"All he needs is time,"_ he reminded himself. _"The world at large thinks we're dead. Time is all we have."_

"That chair can't be terribly comfortable," Reese said, startling him from his thoughts. Again. He had thought the man had finally drifted off to sleep. _It would seem not._ Finch arched an eyebrow, "I assure you that it is, Mr. Reese."

"You don't have to stay, Harold. You did your part. I'm all patched up now, see?" Reese said flicking his bandaged wrist absently. "So, you can go…wherever it is you go when you're not here."

Finch chuckled. He should be annoyed that Reese occasionally elected to shadow him on his days off. He really should be. But as with most things Reese-related, he wasn't. It was, dare he think it, _endearing_. "As though you don't know that for yourself, Mr. Reese."

"What can I say? You're a hard man to pin, Finch."

"Coming from you, Mr. Reese that is quite the compliment." Finch tilted his head, "Is this you're way of saying you want me to leave?"

"No."

"Then if that's settled," Finch said deciding to forgo sleep himself as he pulled out a book from the nightstand drawer, "I believe I'll read for a while."

Reese didn't look at him, and to the average observer his face didn't change. Finch never having been accused of being average saw Reese's lips quirk, his shoulders going loose minutely as the tension drained out of him. Reese, lulled by the flick of papers being turned and slightly-too-loud breathing and the whiff of lemon, allowed sleep to sweep him from consciousness for the next six hours.

-000000000-

After one days worth of bed rest, Finch realized something despite Reese's best effort to conceal it. He was suffering mild symptoms of PTSD. Last night Finch had passed it off as nothing; those little abortive starts at loud noises, car horns, sirens. But during the day –

During the day it was _worse_. Reese was as close to twitchy as he'd ever witnessed. Being aware of this, and the fact that the man slept with a 35. Berretta, made _Finch_ twitchy.

He had never been so aware of how very loud the city was until every unexpected noise made the fine lines around Reese's eyes tighten. Sirens would blare and Reese would subtly, and sometimes not so subtly, reach for the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants.

Finch came to hate it by proxy, all the noise, and the traffic, but most of all Mr. Snow. Finch regulated his breathing, his hands unclenching from his hand rest. Getting worked up would do him no good and Mr. Snow would have to wait for another time; he could keep. Once his breathing leveled out again, Finch flicked his eyes towards the room Reese occupied; relief was followed closely by a sharp disquiet that overcame him when he heard the soft creak of floorboards.

_Reese never makes unnecessary noise, unless_ – Finch cut off that train of thought. It was foolhardy. Reese had been through an ordeal; it was not too hard to image his skills might not be at their best considering he had stitches in his feet. And that right there was a thought Finch had never imagined would cross his mind, who needed stitches in their feet?

No, Reese hadn't caught on to his true purpose for keeping him close at hand. But he might well have noticed that Finch gained a certain relief in knowing he was present. Which wasn't good, but it was better.

Reese had made noise about going home and 'resting up' but Finch wouldn't have it. He said things like _'Unsupervised concussions can be dangerous Mr. Reese,'_ and _'You need help with those bandages, John!'_ until Reese had conceded. What Finch didn't say was this: '_I'm not ready to let you out of my sight'_ and _'God help me. I think I love you.'_

Finch had accepted these sentiments; having been brought so close to losing Reese had made them unavoidable. At this point to do so would have been an exercise in self-denial, and he was not in the habit of encouraging delusions. Still, accepting was a long stretch and many miles from confessing.

The chair squealed, swiveling as he levered himself to his feet. "We need to talk" he said, shuffling forward to stand, awkwardly, in the doorway. Reese looked up from the book he was flipping through, a wry smile curving his lips. "Are we breaking up, Finch?" he teased, discarding the book. Reese pulled himself to attention, one bent knee hanging off the ledge; closed book resting across his lap. He'd exchanged his suit in favor of worn track pants, no shirt, and Finch could appreciate the view, a bit worse for wear as it was.

"Finch –?"

Reese wasn't laughing, exactly, but he was uncomfortably close to it, now. "Apologies, I believe the last 24 hours have been more taxing than I first realized" Finch offered in lieu of explanation, a blatant manipulation he would feel guilt over late, but would use now. It drove home how very off his game Reese was that he fell for it.

Suddenly Reese wasn't almost-laughing anymore. But there was concern, and tired affection in his pale eyes, "What were you going to say, Finch?"

He paused, head tilting. "Another Number?"

"No, no, nothing of that sort," Finch assured him, wondering what exactly the man had planned to do if there had been a Number; wheelchair himself after any potential target? Finch dismissed the thought, alarming but likely true.

"I have a house, one of many, that I sometimes use when looking for some peace and quiet –" A siren blared outside the window causing Reese to flinch. No more than a hard blink before he forcefully resumed his languid sprawl. Reese attempted to cover his earlier reaction with a disarming smile, the sort he used on grumpy clerks, and pretty secretaries to ease his way through closed doors. It was a very nice smile as such things went, but Finch preferred the smaller, truer, one that reached his eyes.

" – As I was saying, the library offers neither of these things. But my house does."

"Why is it I feel the urge to say I'm not that kind of girl?" Reese muttered, running a hand through his hair, "Look, Harold, I'm fine – "

_Crack._ Finch dropped the wine bottle discreetly tucked under his arm, his point made when Reese rolled to his feet, wincing, and cursing, his gun aimed low but steady in his hand. "Christ!" Reese snapped, words clipped and sharp as the razors edge his sanity seemed perched on. "You didn't need to do that."

"Apparently I did, John."

"Do I get a choice in this?" Reese asked, not looking at him. Finch frowned; shuffling closer he gently rested his hand over the one gripping the gun. "Reese – John, I cannot make you do anything you are adverse to, nor would I wish to. Your sleep was erratic, and your naps are worse. You startle at every noise, making sleep nearly impossible. And that's what you need to recover, sleep, and a safe place to do it. I suppose what it comes down to is whether or not you trust me?"

"Trust?" Reese murmured, his gaze lifting abruptly. He squeezed Finch's hand, the calluses on his hand brushing Finch's knuckles, "Yeah, I trust you. I decided to do that a long time ago, Harold."

"I will do my best to never betray that trust, John."

"I know you will."

Reese eyed the shattered pieces of crockery, wine splashed across the floor that he could barely make himself see.

_Red, so much red like –_

He shook himself forcing his mouth to curve into a grin. It was sharp and predatory, unlike the softer tease he'd wanted. "What a waste." Finch arched his eyebrow at the remark. "Not at all. I picked it up at a local drugstore."

Reese laughed, a soft chuckle that surprised them both.

Finch, inordinately pleased, grinned – a small tenuous thing that twitched along the corners of his lips. "Think of it this way Mr. Reese, you can utilize your special talents to pry my secrets from the walls of my house…" Finch paused dramatically, "Well, you can try."

"Is that a challenge, Harold?"

Finch's grin widened. "It is."

Reese propped himself up against the bedside. Hands spread in concession. "In that case…" he leaned into Finch, close enough to smell a hint of lemon and hear the small hitch in his breathing.

"—Lead the way."

Reese threw on a navy-blue sweater, threadbare and worn at the cuffs as he waited. A crutch propped under his arm – the one Finch had discovered in the utility closet, saved over from the last time Reese had been wheelchair-bound. One shoulder leaned against the doorframe, his lanky frame pressed close for several feet of it, the other balanced out by the crutch. It was a standard issue appliance, plain and sturdy. It should look silly. But, somehow, Reese made it work. And that look, that hint of mirth thawing the usual coolness of Reese's eyes as he tossed a backwards glance at Finch made him hurry after Reese quite before he realized what he was doing.

It should be silly.

Reese was a bandaged mess unable to properly walk, and yet –

And yet it simply wasn't.

Finch trailed after, a riot of things going through his head. He quieted his thoughts; all the important ones had already been decided and further debate was futile. The Numbers had their place in his life, but it was no longer the most important one.

"Coming, Finch?" Reese called back over his shoulder opening the car door, and holding it for him. It was a gallant gesture, delivered with a half-mocking, half-sincere nod of his head. It was the sincerity that unnerved Finch most, even as it loosened the tension riding his shoulders. Their hands brushed, transference of electric shock breaking the contact. It was a curiously intimate moment, hands inches apart. Close enough that Finch could feel his heat but distance enough that he couldn't touch. Reese opened his mouth, something dry and witty no doubt, lingering on the tip of his tongue.

"Don't, John," Finch said, unwilling to give up the moment so soon. Reese, indulgently, kept quiet. There was something like kindness in his brief glance, and something else Finch could not place before the other man pulled away sliding into the back of the car, their knees casually bumping.

-000000000-

Reese settled back, content to watch as the busy streets and sidewalks of New York gave way to trees and hills, and eventually a very rustic looking log cabin at the top of a small grassy knoll. It was quite unlike anything he would have expected Finch to consider home. This was exactly where Snow would have expected him to disappear to, making it the onc place he would never look. It was a double bluff; just clever enough that Reese was not overly concerned about midnight raids or a knife at his throat.

Having discovered a mild form of mind reading, Finch finally spoke: "This mandatory vacation is for you, which means a place that's easily defensible, and possesses numerous exit strategies – all easily executable."

Reese swallowed back a tumult of _feelings_ that blindsided him. In an abstract way he'd known Finch cared, but knowing, and _knowing_ were two very different things. It was a kindness he hadn't expected and didn't know what to do with. Finch, who read him far too easily for comfort, waved aside anything he might have said, the car sliding to a gentle stop at the driveway.

"Welcome to my home away from home, John."

"I thought you said –"

Finch ducked his head, adjusting his glasses. A clear tell that he was becoming uncomfortable. Reese couldn't fathom why, but let it be regardless. He was pleasantly surprised when Finch filled in the blanks on his own. "I never said I didn't like it, too."

Mr. Novak carried Finch's luggage up to the house, Reese's a burlap sack slung across his back that he'd insisted on keeping. Finch and Reese limped after, not a single sure step between the pair of them, but they made it work.


End file.
